


[Function: Escape]

by Bellweather



Category: South Park
Genre: (subtle) Friends to Lovers, Abduction, Agoraphobia, Breaking the Cycle of Abuse, COVID-19, COVID-19 Mental Issues, COVID-19 Stress, Captivity, Cigarettes, Depressed Stan Marsh, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hacker Kyle Broflovski, Hacking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kenny is a main character too and he has tons of issues, Legal Drama, Legal Guardianship Drama, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Oblivious Captivity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partially Inspired by S24 E1; The Pandemic Special, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Protective Kyle Broflovski, Protective Stan Marsh, Quarantine, Rekindling, Slow Build, Smoking, Stan Marsh is doing his best, Stockholm Syndrome, Suspense, Teenage Dorks, Teenage Rebellion, Teenagers, Underage Smoking, Warnings May Change, but let's be honest they all have issues, fake ids, no beta we die like men, style endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellweather/pseuds/Bellweather
Summary: Stan only wanted to do one bad thing.He didn't expect that it would allow him to reconnect with someone he hasn't seen since before the world shut down—a certain red-haired someone who, at this point, seemed to be more unsafe than Stan was.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Christophe "The Mole", Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Comments: 29
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thank you so much for reading! Trying something new here :) Stan's not going to end up being the villain this time around lol.
> 
> I want to be upfront about a certain something; I do not write about the events/perceptions concerning COVID-19 with malice or disregard. I take the virus very seriously in my personal life and would never make a mockery of such an unsurpassable, awful thing. The feelings that the characters bear towards the pandemic and how it affects them are solely for atmospheric purposes (and maybe even to serve as a coping mechanism for myself?). Of course is this subject is triggering, I respect and understand that decision, and advise you to click away and do something for self-care :) Because unfortunately, I think this theme is going to continue as the story progresses ;-;
> 
> Pretty sure we're going to have a happy ending, though!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please stay safe! <3

2020 sucks. Sometimes the year was so ridiculous that Stan would laugh sardonically at the world, wearing a face mask that read “Fuck Capitalism,” and hoisting a stolen bottle of lager high in the air. Other times, the year was so dismal that he didn’t have the strength to laugh at it and could only hole himself away in the pillow fort he made at the start of quarantine, doing nothing but crying over the news or mindlessly scrolling through abhorrent social media.

Even on his counseling days, like today, Stan was at loss. Right now he sat in front of his computer screen while his therapist spoke to him via video. She was asking him something, but Stan wasn’t paying attention. He was watching the subtle flicking of her cat’s tail from over her shoulder. The doctor, just like Stan, was calling from home, and something about it was way more distracting than it probably should be.

Stan sat with his cheek leaning on his fist, his arm lazily propping up his head.

_ “-an?” _

He lifted his head, “What? I’m sorry, could you repeat that? My speakers cut out.”

If he had a dollar for every time he used that lie, he would have enough money to produce a vaccine and mass produce it within a week.

_ “Sorry to hear that. Technology is so crazy these days, am I right?” _ she smiled at him,  _ “I asked if you’ve been keeping up with your diary logs, and if you’ve been learning anything from them.” _

“Oh yeah, for sure.”

A lie.

_ “What have you learned, if you don’t mind sharing?” _

“I’ve learned that I am doing better at recognizing when I’m going through a cognitive distortion versus when I’m thinking clearly.”

Another lie.

_ “Good for you, Stan! That’s something we’ve been working towards for a while now! Good job!” _

“Thank you, that means a lot.”

It was so despicably easy to lie these days. It was so easy, it was practically enticing. To talk through a screen was to bear a shield; it was like Stan was protecting his vulnerability while still convincing people that he was functioning, that he was doing okay.

_ “-nd the last thing I want to ask you about before our session ends is where you are with alcohol.” _

“I’m great.”

_ “When was the last time you had a drink?” _

“The same thing I told you last session. February, right before lock-down.”

_ “Good, I’m so happy for you!” _

“Thank you.”

His last drink was four minutes before the call.

His therapist talked for a little while longer, and he watched her cat’s tail flick back and forth on the screen. He wondered if the cat was trying to tell his therapist something, maybe that it was annoying to have her home all the time these days, and that she should go back to work.

_ “-oing anything this weekend, Stan?” _

“Going to a friend’s house,” Stan said. This time it was only a half-lie.

_ “Wearing a mask?” _

“Of course. I doubt I’ll even go inside.”

_ “Perfect. Please be sure to be careful. So if you don’t have any more questions, you can go ahead an-” _

He didn’t wait for her to finish, and ended the video call. When the screen turned off, Stan was surrounded by darkness; he never remembered to turn on his bedroom lights these days. His legs were stiff and aching because he had been sitting for hours, and his body wasn’t happy about it.

Stan’s body was a far cry from what it was a few months ago, when he was the star quarterback of South Park High. Back then, he had devoted three hours a day to training, and the results had been herculean. He made girls (and  _ plenty _ of boys, too) swoon every time he wore a short-sleeved shirt, his biceps bulging in open display. Even his teachers treated him with a good deal of respect, often going easy on him when grading and allowing him permission to do things that other students couldn’t. But more important than all of the clout he earned, Stan had actually been proud of himself back then.

These days, he was softer. His jawline was less defined. He lost track of his work-out schedule months ago, and he wasn’t actively doing anything to reverse the devolution of his body. Pretty much all he did was sit around the house and drink his dad’s beers.

Until tonight. Tonight, he was going to a friend’s house, “friend” being a very loose term, and that friend was going to help him get more than just what his dad stored in the back of the freezer.

It was Kenny McCormick who got Stan in touch with the guy.

“Trust me, he’s super chill,” Kenny had assured one day when he and Stan were smoking behind the school cafeteria, “His accent’s annoying as fuck, but once you can get past that, you’re golden.”

To be honest, Stan didn’t know why Kenny of all people wanted to get a fake ID. Well, he knew  _ why  _ he wanted one, obviously, but he didn’t know why he needed one. Kenny never got carded. His summer jobs in manual labor and his tooth-and-nail streetfights left scars and bruises across his sun-tanned skin, giving him the look of a twenty-five-year old at  _ least. _

As for Stan, at the crux of his athletic career, he could have definitely passed as an adult, too, but since quarantine, his body softened and he went right back to appearing his actual age of seventeen.

That’s why he was going through with getting a fake ID. As soon as he had his handy-dandy card that said he was born twenty-one years ago, he would be able to convince any barkeep in town to let him purchase a beer or two. In fairness, South Park was the kind of town that wouldn’t question a ten-year-old if he asked for a vodka tonic, but Stan just wanted to be confident. He had to trust that his plan would work without fail, because goddamn it, he just wanted to do something fun and reckless. Self-destructive, yes, maybe indulging his bad behavior was a teeny tiny bit on the masochistic side. But Stan needed this. He needed to get the bad stuff out of his system and just break the rules a little bit. If given the choice, he would choose innocent teenage rebellion of any magnitude over Zoom therapy sessions any time.

Stan felt his phone buzz, and he turned over the screen to read that an unknown number was calling him. It was only a number unknown to the device, Stan knew perfectly well who was calling.

He answered the phone and a gruff, accented voice broke through:

_ “Just calling to confirm you will be here in half an hour, yes?” _

“Yes,” Stan glanced at his watch, “I might even be early, because I don’t have anything else going on right now.”

_ “That’s fine,” _ the voice replied, his ‘th’ sounding more like a ‘z,’  _ “Just knock on the door three times when you get here. Wear a mask.” _

Stan smirked, snorting a little, “Yeah, yeah right. Wear a mask to come get my illegal freebie card.”

A brief moment of hindrance ensued, and Stan immediately knew he said the wrong thing.

_ “Wear a mask. My associate is here too, and he has a compromised immune system. If you get him sick, I will break your legs with my bare hands.” _

Stan felt something ugly twist in his gut. Goddamn it, even shady, back-alley adults who sold fake IDs to teenagers were affected by all this COVID shit. It seemed as though no one could escape any of it.

“S-Sorry,” Stan said, “I was just joking.”

_ “I wasn’t laughing.” _

The sheer coldness in the man’s voice made Stan believe that he had never laughed in his life.

He swallowed a sticky, guilt-laden lump down his throat, “I-I’ll be there soon. And I’ll wear a mask. And, um- And I’ll even gloves, if you want.”

_ “Even better, kid.” _

After that, the man hung up the call, and Stan was once again surrounded by silence and darkness.

It took a few seconds for his sight to readjust, in which he realized that it wasn’t all that dark. The twilight sky outside delicately brightened his room from a soft glow in the window. Fat flecks of snow dropped from the teal sky, sending picturesque dotted shadows to crawl over Stan’s carpeted floor.

It wasn’t all that silent in his bedroom, either. If he really focused, Stan could hear his sister loudly talking to someone on her phone from behind closed doors. She sounded angry about something, but that didn’t surprise him. There was never a time she wasn’t angry.

And if Stan focused especially hard enough, he could hear the television his mom was watching downstairs. There was no telling what she was watching, Stan couldn’t hear that well, but he knew with certainty that Sharon wasn’t getting up from the couch any time soon. She wouldn’t stop him from leaving the house. She would ask where he’s going, sure, but as soon as he would tell her that he’s going to a friend’s house, she would give him that sad smile she always gives, tell him to be safe, to wear a mask, and to use hand sanitizer, and then she would turn back to the television to distract herself from her throes.

Stan supposed he was going to do just the same; distract himself from his throes. All he needed was a little plastic permit to help him with the first step, and then he could destroy himself to his heart’s content.

* * *

“He sticks out like a sore thumb, but trust me, he’s super discreet,” Kenny had explained that day behind the cafeteria, speaking on the exhale of a drag from his cigarette, “Just look for the stupid French dude with long-ass brown hair. Tall, buff, unshaven. French. You can’t miss him.”

Kenny’s words rang through Stan’s head as he ascended the staircase, slightly winded because it had been so long since his last cardio workout. He was able to make it inside the apartment complex with little trouble, getting through the front door using a passcode that the patron sent to him in an encrypted email. Now all he had to do was make it to the right room and knock on the door thrice.

For some reason, Stan felt nervous. Like, giddy nervous. The kind of nervous he got every time before he went on a date with Wendy. Like, preparing-to-projectile-vomit nervous.

Stan found that strange, to say the least. Was it normal to feel sillily nervous before doing something illegal?

He found the correct apartment at the end of the third floor, the front door battered and worn, the address numbers threatening to fall off their hinges. Taking a shaky breath through his mask, Stan knocked on the door three times.

At first he was met by silence.

His pulse quickened.

Then he heard a chain unlocking and the front door gave way, opening inwards. In the doorframe stood a man who fit Kenny’s description exactly: Tall, buff, unshaven. French. His brown hair was roguishly unkempt, and his devilish eyes were narrowed with scrutiny. He wore a neck gaiter, so Stan couldn’t see his mouth, but if he had to guess, he would assume the guy was frowning disdainfully.

“Um, hi,” Stan said. Was he supposed to introduce himself? “I’m, um, Stan Marsh. You and I were- Well, you agreed to-”

The man motioned for Stan to enter the apartment.

“Oh, uh,” Stan was hesitant, “Didn’t you say your friend was- like, I don’t know… wouldn’t it be a bad idea if-”

“-He’s in the shower right now, you won’t have any contact with him,” he replied tersely, his voice croaky like he had been smoking since he was nine.

The invitation felt… wrong, to say the least. For a reason he couldn’t identify, the prospect of entering the apartment daunted him, like he just knew he wasn’t supposed to go inside. But at the same time, Stan felt stupid for thinking so. He was already purchasing a fake ID. What was the harm in making a few more bad choices, right?

Suppressing the instinct to projectile-vomit, Stan stepped inside the apartment. He found that it was bewilderingly well-kept. There wasn’t much furniture, and there were even fewer house trinkets, but everything that was there had its own place, neatly stored with objective direction and organizational intent. The place reeked of cigarettes, and the sound of the shower running in the background was astronomically loud and creaky, but at least everything looked nice. Even the concrete flooring was swept clean, and there wasn’t a spot of dirt in sight.

“My name’s Christophe,” the man finally said, opening a desk drawer and fishing inside it, “But most people ‘round here call me The Mole.”

Stan wanted to question why, but had a feeling that he didn’t really want to know.

So he didn’t say anything. He just stood there in the apartment, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly, while Christophe dug through the desk drawer which Stan could now see was full of manila envelopes.

On top of the desk was the most massive computer Stan had ever seen. Not only that, but the mammoth-sized monitor was accompanied by stereos twice the size, a keyboard with color-changing LEDs beneath the keys, and countless other instruments that Stan couldn’t even comprehend. The computer and its equipment were so cosmically technological and daedal that they made Stan’s mind spin. It didn’t seem realistic to him that a scanty French bum who lived in a fixer-upper and sold fake IDs to kids was in possession of such industrial technology. But then again,  _ far  _ stranger things have happened in South Park. (Maybe Christophe just stole all of it.)

When the Mole found the envelope he was looking for, he held it outstretched in his hand.

Stan reached out to take it, but then it was pulled away from him, almost tauntingly.

“Payment first,” Christophe demanded flatly, holding out his other hand, beckoning his fingers to indicate what he wanted.

Stan felt himself flush. He couldn’t help but feel like he was acting like a child.

He felt so naïve, which was actually really strange, because this wasn’t by any means his first time doing something he shouldn’t be doing. Hell, now that he thought about it, Stan had been doing illegal shenanigans and inappropriate schemes with his friends since he was a little kid. He should be  _ more _ than comfortable breaking the rules by now.

But something about this exchange was different. Something about it made him feel ignorant and out of place, like he was delving into something he shouldn’t be.

He tried to mask his nervousness as he unzipped his coat pocket, unveiling the fat wad of cash he had brought for the occasion. Months ago, he had been saving it for a big school trip, where his football team was going to travel across the states for a lakeside vacation in the springtime. Stan had been looking forward to it since freshman year; it was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. But, indubitably, for reasons that don’t need to be explained at this point, the trip was cancelled, and the money was not spent. Until today.

He watched as the Mole forked his thumb over the bills, counting under his breath. He recounted twice before he finally accepted that Stan paid the right amount, and returned the favor by passing him the envelope.

Stan could feel that there was a decent amount of weight to it. He could only imagine what the ID inside looked like. Curiosity itching at the tips of his fingers, Stan started to open the envelope, but a sudden  _ creak _ sound caught his attention.

“Uh oh. What’s that noise?” he mumbled, imagining some militarized police force breaking through the apartment door to either arrest him or shoot him on sight.

“Don’t let it bother you, kid,” Christophe muttered irately, walking towards the front door, “It’s just the shower turning off. Showerhead’s rickety as fuck.”   
He opened the door and not-too-subtly gave a cock of the head to tell Stan to get out.

Swallowing a little bit, Stan complied. As he walked, he held the manila envelope against his chest with both hands, like a child holding something secret. He was expecting Christophe to say more, or at least something along the lines of “pleasure doing business with you,” but it was clear that the Mole wanted him out as soon as possible.

Not wanting to upset him, Stan did as he was instructed and walked out of the apartment, the manila envelope in his hands. Christophe didn’t even give a parting gesture before he locked the door behind him.

A rush of adrenaline consumed Stan as he stood outside that apartment room. His heart was in his ears, his pulse deafening and accelerating. He gawked in stupefaction when he realized what he had just done. He just bought a fake ID. And it went so bizarrely well. He was still alive and in one piece, now with a false permit in his hands that would allow him just about anything he desired.

Excited and giddy, Stan started to open the envelope, too exuberant to care if any residents witnessed what he was doing. Inside the envelope was a perfectly cut card of plastic that resembled an actual identification license in every way. The picture of himself was taken right at the start of summer, right before his chiseled jawline vanished, and for a second, Stan wondered if the difference between the photo and his current state was drastic enough to induce suspicion.

But that tenuous thought didn’t matter, because as his gaze travelled the card, he noticed a mistake so obvious that it took the breath right out of him.

Right at the center of the card, right under his name, was his home address. And the last two lines of it read:

_ South Park, _ _  
_ _ Colarado _

Colarado. Col-a-rado. It was supposed to be Col-o-rado. Even the quasi-illiterate rednecks and hillbillies who lived in these parts knew that. The mistake was so blatant and obvious that it was infuriating. Thinking about the financial sacrifice Stan gave for this piece of shit was enough to make his blood boil.

Shoving the card back inside the envelope, Stan immediately turned around and stormed back to the apartment. He knocked several times, disregarding the knock-three-times rule, too upset to give a damn. He knocked until he could hear the door unlocking from the other side, and by then, his hand was throbbing with aches.

He impatiently crossed his arms as he waited for the door to pull aside, and when it did, his arms dropped to hang limply at his sides. No amounts of counseling or virtual therapy could have  _ ever _ prepared him for the sight in front of him right now.

Kyle Broflovski stood there, one hand clutching the knob, the other hand gingerly pressing against the door frame. His red hair was dark in color, almost as dark as blood, and dripping wet onto a shower towel around his neck. At the sight of Stan in the doorway, Kyle took an immediate sharp inhale, his vibrant green eyes going wide, but he said nothing.

Stan’s mouth was probably hanging open, but he was too distracted to know for sure.

The two of them stood there gaping at each other in disbelief in some kind of unreal, perplexing trance.

It was Kyle who finally broke the baffled frozen tension. He let go of the doorframe, now clutching the towel over his shoulders with both hands, nervously, timidly, as if it were a security blanket. He stared at Stan as if he were a stranger, but they both knew he was thinking otherwise.

“Hey, Stan. Long time no see,” Kyle gave a fraction of a smile, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Stan repeated blandly. Kyle had  _ no idea _ just how much Stan missed him.

Inquisitive green eyes scanned him up and down, back and forth, as if studying him under scrutiny. Kyle was analytical like that; it was one of the many things Stan revered about him.   
“What’re you doing here, Stan?” he asked, not blinking.

Stan wanted to ask Kyle the same thing, but didn’t have the guts for it.

He took a moment to debate whether he should tell Kyle why he was here or not, thinking about how Kyle would chastise him for being so reckless and stupid, and then immediately coddle him in brotherly fondness until he got up on his feet again.

Stan pursed his lips tightly in thought, and then held up the manila envelope, “The, uh- Well, I was buying this. And then I realized there was a misprint, so I came back.”

Kyle’s expression pulled into a short frown.

Stan braced himself.

When nothing happened for about a minute, Stan peeked one eye open, internally wondering why Kyle hadn’t already scolded him to death. He still had all ten fingers, none of his limbs were missing, and his face wasn’t scorched with ash; so what happened?

Kyle was looking at him not belligerently, but with confusion. With concern.

“There was a misprint?” he asked.

“Um,” Stan shook the envelope and card, “Yeah. It spells Colorado with two a’s.”

Still frowning, Kyle reached out to take the ID, before he stopped himself, pulling his hand back against his chest.

“Hold on,” he said, “Let me put on a mask and gloves. You can come in, though.”

Stan internally screamed at himself. Gloves! He said he was going to wear gloves, but he forgot!

He felt himself flushing even deeper than he did the first time he entered the apartment, this time following a friend instead of a stranger, a friend he hadn’t seen in almost a year, a friend who had no moral reason to be here right now. He lingered in the middle of the smoke-filled living area, watching Kyle move around the place with natural placidity, as if this was normal for him, like he had lived here for a long time. Kyle opened a desk drawer, a different one than Christophe had opened, and pulled out a pair of disposable gloves and a mask, putting each item on himself accordingly. When he was fitfully protected, Kyle moved on to sit down in front of the computer.

Stan watched in absolute awe as Kyle logged in and navigated the screen with perfected ease, completely undaunted by the labyrinthine device at his fingertips.

“That stupid idiot Tophe…” Kyle muttered from under his mask.

“What’s that?”

Kyle waved a hand over his shoulder at Stan, his eyes glued to the screen, “I’m usually the one who handles this stuff. Stupid Tophe did my job for me this  _ one time _ and he messes up.”

Stan tilted his head in bewilderment.

“The programming for the design of the cards. It’s my job,” Kyle explained, vaguely gesturing to the computer, “For whatever reason, it looks like Tophe tried to do yours on his own. The idiot. He messed up pretty much everything. He didn’t even print the card in the right size.”

Stan stared at the manila envelope in his hands. He hadn’t even realized the card was the wrong size.

Kyle sighed annoyedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture of his that Stan had always secretly though was becoming of him. As strange as it sounded, Stan always thought it made Kyle look picturesque; it made him look vulnerable and imperfect, and something about that was enticing.

It was a gesture that Stan hadn’t seen in months. He hadn’t seen Kyle in months. And Kyle was  _ here.  _ Of  _ all _ the places he could be, Kyle was  _ here. _

“I apologize for my roommate’s incompetence, Stan,” Kyle said a little wistfully, spinning around on the desk chair to face him, “Tell you what. I’ll give you your money back for now, while I start working on a new card for you. I’ll have it ready between one and two weeks. Is that okay with you?”

Stan felt his jaw drop, something tugging at the back of his heart.   
“Wait, hold on, Kyle,” he slapped a hand to his forehead, “Wait, what’s going on? You, like… what? Do you, like, work with this guy or something? Do you- Oh God, do you  _ live _ here? Is  _ this _ where you’ve been for the last year? Your mom told me you were just quarantining at home, and that I wasn’t allowed to come see you until the cases went down!”

Kyle glanced downward in shame, and for a second, Stan worried that he had been a tad too assertive.

“That’s- Well, yeah, that’s how it was at  _ first,” _ Kyle vaguely explained, “I haven’t been here forever, you know. Only for the last few months.”

“And what, you’ve been selling fake IDs with this guy? Who is he?”

“It’s… a long story, Stan.”

“I have time.”

Kyle gave a low, long exhale, “Stan…”

“No, really, I have time,” Stan insisted a little too desperately, “It’s not like I’m doing anything these days. Please talk to me. Tell me everything, I’ll listen, I swear, dude.”

There was a sound of something knocking over in the next room, and Stan and Kyle turned to the wall nervously.

“I don’t-” Kyle faltered, “Hey, Stan, this isn’t the right time.”

“I don’t understand, dude… What’s going on?”

Kyle looked at Stan in a way that made him feel heartsick. He looked like he wanted to give Stan what he wanted, to explain everything in black and white, but he was holding himself back– or even, some _ thing _ or some _ one _ was holding him back.

Kyle gave a nod to himself, and then hastily snatched a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk. He wrote in remarkably legible handwriting for such a quick-moving hand, and spoke as he wrote, “I’m writing down my new number. You can contact me here. I’ll carve out time in my schedule for the two of us to catch up. I have a lot to tell you,” he folded the paper four times and then handed it over, “And I’m sure you’ve got a lot to tell me, too, dude.”

_ Not really,  _ Stan thought about saying, but decided to keep his mouth shut. He took the paper carefully, holding it as if it were made of delicate glass. For some reason, the paper was heavier than Stan thought it would be.

“I didn’t know you got a new number.”

“It happened just recently. You haven’t been trying to contact me through my old phone or anything, have you?”

“Um, maybe a little bit.”

Another lie. He sent anywhere from one to one hundred messages a day; and the last response from Kyle had come in February.

Stan winced, holding the paper close to his chest, “Kyle, I don’t fucking understand what’s going on with you, dude.”

“I’ll explain ev-” Kyle bit his lower lip, stopping himself, “Look, I’ll explain what I can, okay? Just not right now.”

“Why not ri-”

The door to the other room flung open in a careless manner, the Mole trudging inside soon after. Now that he wasn’t wearing his gaiter, Stan could see that Christophe’s facial hair was just as unkempt as his hair. His chin was unshaven in what looked like a half-assed attempt at a goatee. He stopped short at the sight of Stan by the computer.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asked, though he delivered it more like a statement than a question.

“You’re such a douche bag, Tophe,” Kyle smirked, twirling around on the desk chair, “You messed up his card. We need to make him a new one now.”

He frowned almost in aggression, “That doesn’t mean he has a right to be in the apartment.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. No need to get embarrassed, douche, everyone makes mistakes,” Kyle rolled his eyes. He turned back to Stan, tapping the manila envelope, “So just a recap; I’ll give you your money back and I’ll fix this for you. I’ll reach out to you when it’s ready, and then you can come get it, okay?”

Stan was starting to feel sick to his stomach. Something about the way that Kyle and Christophe (this random guy, this stranger, this practical  _ criminal)  _ interacted with each other was so unnerving. How was it that Kyle was behaving so naturally with him? From Stan’s memory, Kyle had never been so open and undeterred in any residual environment before. Even when inside his own house, Kyle was decisive about his word choices, always keeping a softer volume so his mom wouldn’t storm into his bedroom to beat him, and never cursing when his little brother was in earshot in an attempt to preserve what little innocence Ike had left. But here Kyle was, openly speaking whatever came to mind with the last person Stan would expect.

He realized they were both staring at him. Kyle was waiting for some kind of response and Christophe was staring so intensely that it made Stan feel like he was being burned.

“Um, okay,” he said, his mouth feeling a tad too dry. His throat was so scratchy. So scratchy, in fact, that he started coughing.

The sheer and utter panic in Kyle’s green eyes was enough to send Stan into distress.

“No, no, no!” he exclaimed, “Hold on, I’m not sick, I promise, I-” he broke into a coughing fit again, clamping a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress the coughs beneath the mask.

The next thing he knew, Stan was being pushed out of the apartment, Christophe shoving him backwards with rough assertiveness.   
“I think it’s time for you to get a move on, kid,” he grumbled, his accent laden with distaste and belligerence, “Get out of here.”

“Okay, okay! Jesus Christ! Don’t touch me!” Stan shouted, throwing his hands up in the air to throw Christophe away.

Jesus Christ, Stan would  _ never _ get used to the horror that came when adults hurt him, no matter how many times it happened.

After catching his breath as he was knocked out of the apartment, Stan worriedly looked inside the open door, desperate to catch one last glimpse of Kyle.

Relief came in an overwhelming wave of gratitude when Stan made eye contact with his super best friend from across the space. Kyle sat there in the oversized desk chair, his legs crossed over each other in that way he always used to sit in elementary school, his hair still damp and darkened, and his face hidden behind a cloth and polyester mask. Kyle gave the tiniest of goodbye-waves, so tiny that Stan almost didn’t see it.

He tried to wave back, but then Christophe shoved his wad of cash in his open hand and slammed the door shut. Stan was left staring at the closed door, its wooden surface only two inches from his face, a wad of useless cash in his ungloved hand and a frown unseen beneath his mask.

Stan was confused as hell. Wilder things have happened during 2020, that’s for certain. But this didn’t feel like one of those things he could just brush aside. Somehow he already knew that this–whatever  _ this _ was– was not going to be something he would share with his therapist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: smoking

“Why the fuck are you so tense?"

Therapy sucks, that’s why.”

“Okay, yeah. But like, you’re tenser than normal, dude. Look at you, it’s like the smokes ain’t calming you at all. What’s up?”

“... Well for one thing, I saw Kyle yesterday.”

The spliff between Kenny’s lips fell out and dropped to the ground as he broke into a spontaneous fit of coughing.

Stan had to take a step back when clouds of that god-awful stench of marijuana rolled out of Kenny’s mouth. He waved the fumes away while Kenny bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath in between sputtering coughs.

If Stan were wearing his mask right now, maybe he wouldn’t be so deterred by the coughing. He normally always wore a mask on his (very, very few) outings with friends, even when with his most intimate like Kenny and Wendy. But it was impossible to keep a mask on while smoking. (It was kind of stupid to think that Stan actually _wished_ he could.)

He and Kenny stood behind the school cafeteria. It was their favorite spot for Kenny to hit a few spliffs and Stan to smoke a cigarette or two that he stole from his dad’s not-so-secret stash.

The school was closed these days. The doors were all locked, the lights were all off, and the classrooms were all infinitely empty. No one ever came by the school, not even staff members just to check up on it, which meant Stan and Kenny could sit and smoke for hours on end without ever getting caught red-handed. Smoking excursions like these were just about the only way the two of them could interact these days.

When Kenny finally stopped coughing, he was wiping tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his parka, “H-Holy _shit!_ God fucking damn it, warn me next time! You can’t just say shit like that when I’m in the middle of a puff!”

“Sorry,” Stan said, smiling a little sadly, “I didn’t think it would almost kill you.”

“What _doesn’t_ kill me, Stan?” Kenny grunted. He wiped his mouth and started to take deep breaths, facing away from Stan as a precaution.   
After a tremendous heaving inhale that could have been interpreted as a faux sex noise, Kenny snapped his head back up, “Now, did you just say that you saw Kyle or were you just fucking with me?”

“I saw Kyle,” Stan replied, barely believing the words as he said them, “It was insane, dude, I wasn’t expecting it at all.”

“I haven’t seen Kyle in _months,”_ Kenny made a chimeric whimpering sound, sadly smiling at memories they shared together, “I miss him so freaking much, dude. How’s he doin’? Where’d you run into him? I thought his bitch of a mom had him on strict lock-down at home.”

“That’s the crazy part.”

Moving his cigarette to the other hand, Stan reached inside his pocket to finger the wad of cash he had stuffed down there. When he got home from the estranged encounter a few days ago, he had been too distracted, too mind-boggled, to remember to take the note out and store it somewhere safe.

“Remember how I went to get that fake ID the other day?” Stan took a drag from his cigarette, speaking on the exhale, “That’s where I saw Kyle.”

Kenny raised his eyebrows, “Never thought that that goody two-shoes would even dream of getting a fake ID.”

“He wasn’t getting one. He was just… there. With the dude.”

“What dude?”

“The French dude.”

“The Mole?”

“That’s the one.”

“Kyle was hanging out with him?”

“It… No, he might’ve been staying there for a while,” Stan elaborated, his tongue slick with distaste, “I’m not sure. It was all so strange and sudden and I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

Kenny watched him carefully, a kind of brotherly concern lingering in his stark blue eyes.

Over the years, Kenny’s protective side surfaced in ways anyone could see. Back when in-person school was still a thing, he would walk his little sister to class every day, holding her hand until she made it to the door, drop-kicking anyone who looked at them twice. His affections didn’t stop with Karen either, in the last few years he’s started to protect everyone in his inner-circle, too. He whisked Butters away to safe spaces every time his parents were too violent with him. He shielded Stan from Wendy every time she tried to break his heart again, barking viciously at her much like how a dog would. Hell, he even took Cartman on long drives through the mountains every time he needed to hurl his frenetic, bloodthirsty anger out of his system so he wouldn’t hurt anybody.

And when Kyle was still in their lives, Kenny was his anger management buddy. He would go with Kyle on long runs around the neighborhood whenever he needed to release pent-up steam and get away from his parents. Or he would just sit and act as a soundboard, allowing Kyle the space to rant to someone for hours. Or he would simply make sure that Kyle took his insulin after getting upset to ensure that his blood sugar was under control, since it tended to spike dangerously in moments of anger.

Kenny would do the things that Stan wanted to do for Kyle, but was never strong enough for them. Stan was too much of an empath. If Kyle was ever in distress, Stan would feel it twice as much, and then Kyle would have to console _him,_ when Kyle was the one who needed consolation in the first place.

Thank God Stan had Kenny to keep him stable.

Maybe it was because Kenny was afraid of losing what little he had–because really, the kid practically had nothing to his name– that he felt he needed to become the world’s big brother. Whether that was the motive behind Kenny’s behavior or not, it didn’t matter, because Stan appreciated it nonetheless. He needed it. He was so bewildered and damaged that he needed a big brother more than anyone else right now.

Stan sighed, running a hand through his hair, “No, it was more than that, actually. I think- I think Kyle said something like he was the one making the IDs.”

Kenny smirked. Then he realized Stan wasn’t joking.

“Oh shit, seriously?”

“Yeah. He had this big fancy computer to make them and stuff. It was freaking me out,” Stan understated, remembering how uneasy he felt when he watched Kyle operate the machine with such professionalism and ease.

“So, like, does he work for the Mole, then?” Kenny asked, leaning back against the school walls, “That’s a pretty fun after-school job.”

“I think he’s, like… living with him,” Stan cringed at the thought of it.

“What makes you think that?”

“I mean, like, when I was there, Kyle just got out of the shower. He was acting like he was at home.”

“Taking a shower don’t mean nothing, bruv,” Kenny reached inside his parka, probably feeling around for another spliff as he spoke, “I take showers at your place all the time.”

“Well, that doesn’t count. You don’t have running water at home,” Stan sighed, “Kyle even said that he’s been there for months now. I don’t get it.”

Stan took a breath, getting ready to tell Kenny about the new phone number Kyle gave him, but he stopped himself. He said nothing. He bit down on his tongue until he could taste the metallic tang of blood.

He couldn’t place his finger on what it was exactly, but something itching inside of him told him not to open up about Kyle’s new phone number. Something about it felt innately private. A partially selfish thought occurred that told Stan that Kyle’s new phone number was something just for himself, and that Kenny wasn’t supposed to know about it.

He thought about the way Christophe stared at him after he was given Kyle’s number back in the apartment. The Mole had looked at him like he was a threat, like he was digging his nose into something he shouldn’t be.

Stan wasn’t the nosy type, but he could already tell that this was something far too important to not pursue further.

Kenny must have noticed that he was thinking deeply. He watched on in that wonderful brotherly way, looking him up and down like he was fragile. He started to assemble a second spliff from the materials in his pocket, not meeting Stan’s gaze as he began speaking, “Months would make sense. I haven’t heard from ‘im since, like, January or February,” he lit the spliff, “Did he look like he was doin’ okay?”

Stan winced as he confessed, “I don’t know, dude. I was too shocked to even really notice. It almost felt like I wasn’t even there, you know? It was like… an out of body moment. It felt ethereal.”

“Big word.”

“Kyle would have used a bigger one.”

“Go back.”

“What?”

“Go back and see Kyle.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Are you kidding me?” Kenny inhaled smoke, “Yeah, seriously. I mean, look at you. It’s tearin’ you up inside, dude, just go fucking see him again. Get some straight answers. You’ll feel better after seein’ him a second time, y’know.”

“I doubt it,” Stan sighed. He raised his cigarette to his lips, but decided he was too nauseous for another drag, and dropped it to the pavement, squishing it out with the bottom of his shoe, “Besides, I don’t think that Mole guy liked me very much. I think he’d get mad if I asked to show up again.”

“Oh please. No need to feel special. The Mole doesn’t like anyone. Don’t let ‘im intimidate you,” Kenny laughed a little, “But hey, if you’re seriously worked up over that French fucker, then just show up spontaneously. No forewarning. Just, like, show up one day and say ‘Oops, I left my hat here. I came by to pick it up.’ And then just stay for Kyle.”

“I don’t know if I like that idea.”

“You ain’t all that good at getting out of your comfort zone, are you?” Kenny smirked.

He must have meant for it to be a joke, but Stan felt the sting of it all the same.

He lowered his head and nodded.

Kenny frowned. He put a gloved hand on Stan’s shoulder, “Hey, dude. You want me to stop by the apartment and go check in on Ky for you? I wouldn’t mind. The French fuck doesn’t scare me.”

When Stan didn’t answer, Kenny pressed on.

“I think I’d like it if I stopped by, actually. I miss Kyle.”

Stan stared at his stifled cigarette on the concrete ground, watching the scarce exhaust trickle away into the cold wind of the outside. He could still taste blood in his mouth from where he bit his tongue, and he had to swallow it back before he said, “Kenny, I don’t know what-… I don’t know what’s going on with Kyle. But whatever it is, I feel like it can’t be that easy. Does… am I making any sense?”

“Not really. That could be ‘cause I’m almost high though,” Kenny squeezed his shoulder.

Stan could feel the strong grip of Kenny’s long fingers on his shoulder, the strength in his hand no doubt supplied by the torturous summer jobs he had in manual labor, and it gave him a little reassurance.

“I just think that this–whatever _this_ is– this _thing_ with Kyle– It doesn’t feel surface-level to me. I think there’s a lot more to it that I don’t understand, and I don’t think it’ll be easy to just walk in and hang out with Kyle like everything’s normal.”

“Dude, what _is_ normal in 2020?” Kenny forced a smile.

Stan smiled bemusedly, “Touché.”

“I get what you mean, though. You ain’t in the wrong, Stan. I don’t get it either. This shit’s trippy,” Kenny let go of his shoulder and took another hit from his spliff, “You wanna wait it out, fine by me. You wanna dive right in, fine by me. Whatever you do, just watch out for yourself, okay? And keep me updated as much as you can.”

“Okay, _Mom,”_ Stan’s smile lingered, “So, what about you? Are you going to do anything?”

Kenny pulled a face, his spliff tucked into the corner of his mouth, “I dunno. I might. I really wanna see Kyle again.”

Stan nodded. The cash in his pocket now weighed down like a ton of rocks, “Me too.”  
He skimmed through the bills in his pocket absentmindedly for a little while, finding tactile reassurance in the feeling of paper under his forefinger. Then he remembered just who he was talking to, and he slipped a few bills out.

“Here, Ken,” Stan said, tucking a decent portion of money into Kenny’s hand.

Kenny blinked slowly, confused. From the redness around his eyes Stan knew he was a little high at this point, and it took him a while to realize what Stan had put into his hand. He might have been having trouble understanding what it was he held in his glove, because it looked like he was staring right through the money, seeing but not processing.

“Kenny?” Stan snapped his fingers in Kenny’s face.

Kenny squeezed his eyes shut at all the snapping, and shook his head to clear everything. When he recovered, he gave Stan a lethargic smile.

“Dude, what the fuck? Paying me like I’m a slut now, huh?”

“Kenny, stop it. You know that’s not what it’s about.”

“I ‘on’t need your charity.”

“Don’t even give me that, dude. You know you do,” Stan avoided looking Kenny in the eye, knowing all too well how Kenny’s sad smiles affected him.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to-”

“-Just- Just, like- Take it for Karen, okay?” Stan protested weakly. He didn’t feel like fighting. He wasn’t good at altercations; he knew if they debated for much longer, it would turn into an argument and Kenny would win.

Luckily his suggestion seemed to win Kenny over. He looked at Stan like he was some kind of savior, his red-rimmed eyes wet and glistening, his mouth agape, “Duuuude.”

“Please don’t make a big deal out of it,” Stan had to directly force himself to look away now, “Just take care of Karen. And take care of yourself. She needs you. And Kevin needs you, too. So you gotta take care of yourself for them, okay?”

Kenny chuckled in a somber sort of way, tucking the money into his parka, “Well, Jesus. Fuck you for forcing me to take care of myself.”

Stan held his breath as Kenny released another malodorous exhale of marijuana, and spoke when the air was clear, “So, like, speaking of Karen and Kevin. Is your family doing okay, Kenny?”

“I…” Kenny paused for a little too long, “I don’ really wanna talk about it right now.”

Stan nodded pensively, “I get it.”

“And, uh, and you, Stan? Has your dad come back yet?”

“I don’t really want to talk about my family either.”

“I get it… I, uh… I think I gotta get home now,” Kenny squished his spliff against the outer brick wall of the cafeteria, snuffing the light, “This‘s been good, Stan the man. I needed this. When can we do this again?”

“I don’t know,” Stan pulled at the hat on his head anxiously, “I think- I think I want to wait and see how things develop with Kyle before our next meet-up if that’s okay.”

Kenny nodded, “Yeah, dude, you’re good. Like I said, keep me updated, okay?”

“Yeah, I will.”

Kenny zipped up his parka, readjusting the gloves on his hands as he readied himself to leave, “Hey, is it cool if I tell Cartman about all the stuff that’s goin’ on with Ky?”

“Um,” Stan’s throat tightened, “I- I don’t know right now. Like, if it’s something serious…”

Kenny’s eyes sharpened, “What kinda serious?”

“Like- Like- I don’t know… Just- I mean, if it’s _bad…_ I don’t want Cartman making fun of it.”

Kenny’s blue stare was impenetrable, “But if it’s something bad, don’t you think it’d be a good idea to have Cartman’s help?”

“I… I don’t know,” Stan’s throat was gripping him from the inside out, “I’m sorry- This is all just a lot right now.”

Kenny softened, “Dude, you’re okay. I get it,” he pulled his hood over his face, “I won’t tell a soul, alright? Just don’t be stupid.”

Stan lightly chuckled at that, “Well, I’ll _try,”_ he smiled, “Do you need help getting home, Ken?”

“No, I’m okay. Ain’t too stoned yet. I got it,” Kenny gave a mock-salute, “See you later, stranger.”

“See you later, Ken,” Stan waved back, “Say hi to Karen and Kev for me. Make sure they’re eating okay.”

Kenny was already walking away, but he spun himself around, walking backwards now so he could face Stan, “And say hey to Kyle for me,” he turned away again, not an inch of his skin exposed from under his winter clothes, “Y’know, _if_ you see him.”

Stan watched him walk away down the icy sidewalk, the streetlights overhead barely casting enough light to keep him safe. In his parka, Kenny was a little orange blur getting smaller and smaller, the shadows of the night encumbering him until he was no longer visible.

With a hefty sigh, Stan decided he had better get home, too. He didn’t have a little sister to feed or an older brother to patch up, but he had an old friend to call, and right now that felt just as, if not more, vital.

* * *

The bass of the music throbbed so boldly that Kyle could feel his organs tremble. The insides of his ears ached in a way that made them feel like they were actively being stung and his sinuses blared. Kyle didn’t mind though. He actually sort of liked it.

Smiling to himself, Kyle turned the dial of the stereo, raising the volume of the music a little louder. It was raunchy, Rabelaisian stuff. It was thunderously loud and vehemently vulgar. It was the kind of music that Kyle would get in trouble for listening to at home. His mom would probably slap him silly and ground him for a week if he ever listened to this kind of music in that dreaded Broflovski household.

Maybe that was the reason he liked this music so much. Maybe a part of himself felt a gush of giddiness from the feeling of rebellion.

Kyle was well known for being a somewhat pretentious stick-in-the-mud who liked to follow rules and insisted on his friends always doing the right thing. It wasn’t a bad reputation to have, but it wasn’t a whole status quo. That elitist, disciplined, nose-to-grindstone part of himself was just that: a _part_ of himself. Innumerable other things went on in his life that practically no one else knew about, _especially_ since he slipped under the radar in early March.

Kyle took a sip of his drink, smiling at the stinging sensation that trickled down his throat, and returned to his work on the computer. His fingers danced along the keyboard with rapidity unsurpassable, his focus unbreakable even with the music roaring at a deafening level.

Onscreen, he entered the second function and started typing in basic instructions. That’s when he heard the front door open, and his room-mate entered the apartment.

“Hey, Tophe,” he called over his shoulder, turning the volume down a little.

Christophe had the habit of leaving the apartment without saying where he was going or when he would be back. By now, Kyle had come to expect that of him.

The Mole gave a half-assed response that sounded more like a gruff than any actual language, but Kyle didn’t mind; by now, he had come to expect that of him, too. He stripped off his boots at the door, not because he liked to prevent mud tracks on the floor, but because he knew Kyle would have his hide if he ever did. Along with his boots, Christophe shed his coat and then headed straight for the bathroom to wash his hands in the sink. Ever since he learned that Kyle was high-risk, he started taking every precaution he could to counteract the pandemic, including washing his hands every time he came back after being outside.

“Were you off with a client?” Kyle called to the bathroom.

“More or less,” Christophe called back over the sound of the squeaky bathroom sink.

Kyle snorted to himself. That was another thing about Christophe. He was only direct when he wanted to be, and he never wanted to be direct when it came to questions; he seldom answered a single one of them.

Kyle made a _tsk_ sound and rolled his eyes, before returning to his computer work on the screen.

He was never taught programming in school. South Park’s educational system was abysmal; the closest thing they had to a computer class was history class, where students used computers to Google all the answers behind the teachers’ backs.

Kyle was self-taught, and he took pride in that, and apparently so did Christophe.  
It was unconventional, really, how their kinship started. Kyle remembered all too clearly the day Christophe sent him the email that asked him to—

-There was an otherworldly noise emitted when Christophe turned off the bathroom faucet, and it made Kyle cringe in the desk chair. He made a noise of disgust, “Tophe, that bathroom sounds like a circus. How come all the crap in there is so loud?”

“What am I, a plumber?” Christophe scoffed, sulking back into the apartment’s main room. He was fiddling on his phone, an untraceable old one that he solely used for clients, as he threw himself over the couch.  
“How’s your work coming along?” the Mole asked, his accent laced with roughness.

Kyle internally smiled when he used the word “work.” He always liked it when he was treated as an equal, not just some kid who was too in over his head.

“Great,” Kyle answered, “I mean, I have a lot left to do, but I got more accomplished today than I intended.”

“Sounds like you. I’m not surprised.”

“Thank you.”

Even while his back was turned, by whatever sixth sense it was, Kyle knew that the Mole was looking directly at him. Swallowing a little, Kyle turned around in the oversized desk chair, taken aback by the intensity in that pair of dark eyes. Christophe was looking at Kyle in that strange way he sometimes does, normally only whenever the lights were low, or when the doors were locked, or in those rare times when Kyle spoke of his life with his family and friends.

But Christophe was looking at him that way right now, with no forewarning, and Kyle found himself unexpectedly feeling tenuously uneasy.

“Tophe? You okay?” he asked, forcing the tenor out of his voice.

Christophe broke his strange staring game to glance down at the phone, and then quickly glanced back up again, “Take a shower.”

“Um,” Kyle blinked, “What?”

“Take a shower,” Christophe repeated with the exact same tone– or more specifically, the exact same _lack of_ tone, “Next client is coming by in a short while and something tells me he’s not going to wear a mask.”

“We have a client today?” Kyle frowned. He closed his computer browser and opened up a new one, pulling up the grid schedule he had made last month. He felt his face heat up with embarrassment when he realized he hadn’t scheduled anything for today in the grid. He was completely unprepared, and it wasn’t like him to forget basic things like this.  
He bit his lip, “Shit, Tophe, I’m sorry, I had no idea. I didn’t-”

Christophe waved a hand to silent him, “It’s fine. I’m taking care of it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I didn’t even make-”

“-I’m taking care of it,” he reiterated, “And like I said, I got a feeling the kid ain’t COVID friendly. I don’t want him anywhere near you. Take a shower so he won’t be in the same space as you.”

Kyle was still biting the inside of his lip, gnawing at it ashamedly, “Okay, okay, I will. But shit, I’m sorry, Tophe. I know it’s not like me to-”

“-Don’t worry about it,” he said, and then rose from the sofa and wandered off into his bedroom, tapping away at the phone.

Kyle sighed to himself, watching Christophe pull the door shut behind him. That was another thing about Christophe: he felt like a void sometimes.

And that was fine. In all honesty, it really was fine. Kyle didn’t really have room to judge; he was a pretty tough cookie to break, too. He wasn’t big on sappy emotions or open expression, because he was more rational than that. Unless the emotion was anger (which he often expressed a little _too_ aggressively), he was essentially a blank slate most of the time. So certainly he didn’t mind Christophe being on the same level of emotional expression as he was.

It just felt… different, he guessed. All of his friends were (and probably still are) a little more trusting than that.

Cartman, for example, was annoyingly fervent and demonstrative, causing havoc for everyone around him, especially Kyle.

Meanwhile, Kenny was a little tougher than that. He always guarded his emotions in fear of dampening the mood of the group, but whenever he felt safe enough to, Kenny could be the most vibrant person in the room. He could get passionate with sex jokes or gooey and cutesy with brotherly devotion with just the same amount of fervor. And as for Stan…

Kyle smiled to himself.

Stan was a different story. He wore his heart on his sleeves every day of the week. If he ever tried to hide his sadness, it never worked, because literally _anyone_ was able to tell. Stan was just so translucent, especially when he was distraught. That’s why literally anyone was able to tell when he was happy, too. When he was happy, Stan could make everyone else smile just by showing up, or make everyone laugh simply by pulling a silly face.

Stan was emotive and temperamental like that, and it was something that set him aside from the rest.

That’s why it felt… _different_ for Kyle to suddenly be living with such a void. He wasn’t used to it.

Kyle’s smile faded when he had to turn the stereo off, the absence of his music somehow deafening. He rose from the seat at the computer. Taking a towel from the linen closet, he went off to the bathroom to do as he was told. He found with displeasure that the shower water ran far too frigid.

* * *

“You didn’t have to chase him out!”

“He was coughing.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to chase him out!”

“He was _coughing.”_

“So?” Kyle hastily pulled his mask off his face, “Stan’s fucking smart, he wouldn’t show up if he knew he were sick. It’s just dry in this room, damn it!”

Christophe rolled his eyes in annoyance and threw himself down on the couch, “Yesterday you said it was too damp in this room.”

“It’s because you insist on smoking in here, it’s easy to cough, Tophe! God, why’re you being such a pain?” Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a habit of his that he wanted to break, but right now he wasn’t concerned with it, “You didn’t have to _grab_ him. He’s sensitive to that stuff. That was completely out of line.”

“Well _excuse me_ for not treating the snowflake right,” Christophe sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as if he were in pain. He grabbed a couch pillow and pressed it down over his face, “Don’t get mad at me, Kyle. You can’t deny I had good intentions. The kid was coughing. What the fuck did you think I was gonna do? Would you’ve done anything different?”

“I wouldn’t have shoved him and chased him out,” Kyle sighed, beginning to rub circles as he pinched his nose, “Tophe, do I even dare ask why you attempted to make his ID on your own? You’ve never done that stuff before. Why did you think you could handle it?”

Christophe pulled the pillow down to show that his eyes were narrowed and pointed, “That isn’t a very nice thing to say.”

Kyle felt a short jab of guilt.

He tried not to flinch.

“You know what I meant… I mean, if you want to know how to do it, I could teach you. I don’t understand why you felt you had to be all hush-hush about it. Not knowing how to do something isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

“Kyle,” Christophe said smoothly, _“Everything_ in this business is hush-hush.”

Something about that induced a spark in Kyle’s brain. He pulled his hand away from his nose so he could look at his the Mole dead-on, “Is that why you didn’t tell me it was Stan who was getting an ID?”

Christophe didn’t even blink, “I don’t get what you’re asking.”

“Stan. I’ve told you about him before. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming over?” Kyle insisted, “I would’ve liked to know that in advance, you know. I could’ve planned for the two of us to hang out and catch up.”

Christophe had his hand propped up on the couch, and he leaned his face into it, “Don’t fuss. It was out of my control, I didn’t realize it was the same Stan,” he yawned, “Good thing, too.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“With that cough of his? There’s no way in hell the two of you should spend time together.”

“I don’t think he’s sick, he only-”

“-I’m not taking any chances. He’s not coming back.”

“Wait, hold on. Not even for his ID?”

“We’ll meet outside the apartment for that. He’s not gonna fucking see you again,” Christophe rose from the couch lazily, his long limbs lanky and unsure as he stood, “You understand why, of course. You’re smart enough for that, Kyle.”

Unconsciously Kyle found himself raising his hands to clutch the towel draped over his shoulders. It wasn’t soft like a quilt by any means, but he held onto it as if it were a blanket anyway, tenuous and unsure. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what, so he just held onto the towel.

“I’m hungry,” the brunette said, stretching a little as he stood, “Do you want anything?”

“Um,” Kyle didn’t know, “I guess.”

Christophe stopped to ruffle Kyle’s hair in an oddly paternal sort of way, not drawing attention to the fact that it was still damp from the shower, before venturing off to the small kitchenette behind the outstretched wall.

Now that Kyle was (relatively) alone, he let a breath escape him. He hadn’t realized he had been holding it in.

His gaze flitted to the oversized plastic card on the table, the one with the picture, name, and home address of his super best childhood friend. He found himself picking up the fake ID, allowing his finger to trace all the letters, even the extra “a” in Colorado.

Stan had been here. After months without seeing his face, Stan had shown up at the doorstep of Christophe’s apartment. He had looked different. He had gained a little weight, it seemed, and he had aged tremendously within the last few months. He had looked more somber, more composed.

Kyle frowned, tracing his finger over Stan’s name and muttering to himself, “God, what am I doing, Stan?”


	3. Chapter 3

It might have been a little bit odd… okay, okay, it was pretty goddamn strange, but Stan didn’t mind. It might have been pretty goddamn strange, but today, Stan was more than happy to send his therapist the following text:

_ hey!! just wanted to let you know i did some self-care today! i did my first workout in months! can’t wait to talk about it during our next session! _

Was it premature to get excited over something so menial? Perhaps. But who gives a damn about prematurity? For the first time in a long time, Stan was proud of himself.

After sitting through the first three hours of the online Zoom calls he was supposed to call “school,” Stan had plugged in his headphones, slipped on his boxing gloves, and started going at the punching bag with everything he could.

It hurt at first because he was so out of practice that it took a long time for his muscles to finally loosen up. But when they finally did, Stan was unstoppable. He was sweating out of every pore and breathing like a maniac, but that didn’t matter, because he felt great. He felt so light and free, and the feeling was addicting.

That’s why he didn’t even feel embarrassed when he sent his therapist that text. He only felt proud of himself.

Stan reread the message he sent her, rolling his eyes a little at his own eagerness. Okay, it was a  _ little _ embarrassing that he was so excited, but he couldn’t help himself. He supposed it was better he sent a text about his self-pride rather than a text about his self-loathing, anyway.

His thumb hovered over the messages app, strangely itching to tap it again.

It didn’t take long until he realized, with a searing panic, that it had been days now since he went to the apartment, and for some reason unknown, he still hasn’t called Kyle. He hasn’t even sent a text.

“Crap,” he muttered out loud, his phone practically quivering in his hand. He couldn’t for the life of him discern why he hadn't messaged Kyle, and that made him even more anxious as he scrambled to think of how he would word his apology. How was he supposed to justify not calling him, when all he had been doing for the past few days was slouching around in his room and pretending to pay attention to his Zoom classes?

He bit the inside of his cheek. Would Kyle be angry?

Probably. Angry Kyle was a Kyle no one wanted to face. But Stan hated the idea of waiting any longer, knowing how that would only make Kyle angrier.

He glanced at the time-stamp on his phone. He had less than half an hour until his next class started on Zoom. If he called now, he could use his online class as an excuse to back out of the call in case things got too heated with Kyle. It was a tasteless plan, and honestly quite rude to consider, but Stan couldn’t help but prepare for the worst; he hated conflict.

He found the piece of paper with the phone number on it, carefully placed on his nightstand so that it was the last thing he saw before he went to sleep. After adding the phone number to his contacts, Stan had to force himself to take a steadying breath. Only when he was sure that he was breathing correctly, he allowed himself to press the button to call Kyle.

At first there was static, and then rustling noises.

Finally a voice broke through:

_ “Hello?” _

The voice was timid and unsure. For a moment, Stan almost didn’t believe the voice belonged to Kyle.

He realized he was hesitating, and snapped himself out of it, “Kyle? This is St-”

_ “-Stan? Oh, hi. It’s good to hear from you. Hold on a second, I-” _ more rustling noises,  _ “-Hold on, let me get to a quieter place.” _

Stan felt like he was listening to a horror movie soundtrack, or something eerily close to that. He heard incoherent mutterings, thrashing rustle sounds, and strange footsteps. He could hear his heart thumping, too; it was pounding horrifically fast in ears.

He was getting giddy nervous again.

_ “Hey, are you still there, dude?” _ Kyle’s voice finally emerged over the background noise, sharp and lucid,  _ “I’m sorry about all that. Can you hear me, okay?” _

Stan had to swallow a lump in his throat so he could speak, “Y-Yeah, I can. Do you- Are- Hey, are you okay? What was all that noise?”

_ “Don’t worry about it, it was just my room-mate.” _

Ah, so that’s what the Mole was. A room-mate.

“Oh… Are you okay? Is he okay?”

_ “Yeah, we’re okay. He’s just doing stuff. Thanks for calling.” _

“I’m, um, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

_ “Don’t worry about it, dude. It’s only been, what, one day?” _

“Like three or four days.”

_ “No, seriously?” _

“Seriously. I’m sorry. Are you- I mean, did you-”

_ “-Really? Dude, I had no idea. Time passes so strangely these days. Sometimes it just stretches on and other times, it flies by. I didn’t even notice.” _

That sentiment made him smile a little, “I feel the same way. I logged onto my class Zoom call for a lesson the other day. I waited for an hour, wondering why no one else was there. Then I realized it was Saturday.”

Kyle laughed through the phone, and the sound of it made Stan’s heartbeat flutter.

Stan imagined oh so vividly Kyle tossing himself down on a bed, vernal and spry in nature, somehow composed and elegant even in his relaxation. He imagined Kyle gazing up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes when he said,  _ “Sounds like hell. My God,” _ he laughed so softly the phone’s speaker barely picked it up,  _ “So what’ve you been up to, Stan? It’s been too long. I want to hear absolutely everything.” _

The image of Kyle supine and serene on his bedding was so vibrant in Stan’s imagination that it barely occurred to him that Kyle might not even have a bed these days. He might be sleeping on the Mole’s couch, or on the floor. He might not be sleeping in the apartment at all, maybe he went to spend his nights somewhere else entirely.

Stan knew next to nothing about the state of his friend, and yet  _ Kyle _ was the one asking for more information.

“Um, well, I haven’t been doing much. As you’d probably expect these days,” Stan cleared his throat, “But, um- But I’m more curious about you, actually. What… You know, what’s been going on with you?”

There was a beat of silence.

“If-” Stan blurted, “If you wouldn’t mind sharing, that is. I mean, I’d understand if you don’t want to tell me.”

That was a lie. He wouldn’t understand.

He heard Kyle give a remorseful sigh, and it made him worry.

_ “I guess I do sort of owe you an explanation, don’t I?” _

“Well, you don’t  _ owe _ me anything. That’s kinda exaggerating,” he ran his hand through his hair, “But I mean, I’d like to know. I’d really like to know, I mean. I- um, it’s been a little too long, and we’re all kind of… you know, confused.”

He just barely managed to say “confused” instead of “worried,” and he was ever so grateful that he did. He figured Kyle wouldn’t react well if he had said “worried,” because Kyle was like that. He was too stuck up and proud of himself to let anyone show concern for his well-being. He always had to prove to the world that he could handle absolutely everything on his own.   
And for Kyle’s sake, Stan fucking hoped it was true that he could.

_ “I know,” _ Kyle sighed again, _ “And I’d apologize to you and the guys if I could, Stan. I never meant to cause a fuss.” _

“You didn’t.”

_ “What?” _

“You didn’t cause a fuss.”

_ “Stan…”  _ the condescending disbelief in Kyle’s tone was undismissable,  _ “That’s kind of you to say, but there’s no need to sugarcoat anything.” _

“No, Kyle,” Stan fumbled to explain, “There- There really was no fuss. It was so weird. You, like- In February or March or whenever it was, you just sorta slipped under the radar. It was so subtle that none of us really noticed it at first. We just assumed you were at home, quarantining. We really didn’t think anything of it. I mean, I was worried, but I never really thought to stop by your house to check in.”   
After saying it out loud, Stan couldn’t hold himself back from nervously giggling, “I’m sure I sound like a godawful friend right now, huh?”

_ “No,” _ Kyle said with assurance, and Stan relaxed a little,  _ “You don’t. Subtlety was what I was going for, actually, so I’m kind of glad it played out the way it did.” _

Stan opened his mouth to reply, but realized he couldn’t think of the right thing to say, so no sound came out, so he stood there in his room, gaping like a fish.

Kyle didn’t address the dip in conversation; maybe he didn’t even notice it. He spoke on seamlessly, his voice tenor and resonant with confidence,  _ “Panic was the last thing I wanted. I swear I didn’t mean to scare you and the guys. I didn’t mean to do anything, really.” _

“Kyle,” Stan felt his throat tighten, “What did you even  _ do? _ You still haven’t explained anything, and you’re living with this guy-…” he scrambled for a plausible explanation, “Did you, like, run away from home or something?”

_ “Or something,” _ he said,  _ “Boiling everything down to the simplest terms, I guess it’s sort of like a tenant situation. I got a job with Tophe and he let me into his place.” _

“Making fake IDs? That’s your job?” Stan felt bad for asking it, “Is this just, like, a temporary job, or-?”

_ “-That’s not really my job. It’s not even really a job, and it’s not all that I do. I mean, you’ve seen the computer, right? I do plenty of other work on it.” _

“Okay, but is the job  _ temporary?” _

_ “... Yes.” _

“Yes?”

_ “Yes.” _

“And you’re sure?”

_ “I think so.” _

“Okay…” Stan spoke his thoughts aloud, trying to piece everything together verbally, “So you met this guy, I’m kinda scared to ask how you met him, so I won’t ask. Um. And then you got a weird sort of job with him, and so you just… left home? Without telling anyone?”

_ “More or less, but I think the details are more intricate than that.” _

“Is there a reason why you didn’t tell anyone?”

Kyle sucked his teeth,  _ “There wouldn’t’ve been a point to telling anyone. I doubt anyone would understand.” _

“Even me? I could’ve tried to understand.”

_ “Oh, Stan! Dude, don’t say it like that. It’s not like I wanted to hurt you.” _

“It’s okay. You didn’t.”

Another lie.

_ “Come on, I know you better than that, Stan.” _

Stan found himself smiling. Even through phone calls, Kyle could read him like a book.

“Whoops,” he giggled nervously again, “You got me.”

_ “I’m sorry,” _ Kyle said, and Stan’s heart fluttered at the sincerity;  _ “I didn’t mean to hurt you, dude. If I could come home right now, I would.” _

“And you can’t?”

_ “Can’t what?” _

“Can’t come home? Why not?”

_ “… I just can’t. I’m not really supposed to talk about it,”  _ under his voice, a cacophony of rustling sounds ensued, like Kyle was moving around again. His voice dropped lower when he admitted,  _ “I’m not even really supposed to be talking to you right now.” _

That line sent alarm bells off in Stan’s head.   
He was gripping his phone too tightly, so much so that his fingers were throbbing, “Does your family know?”

He could fathom all too vividly the look of dread that swamped Kyle’s face.   
_ “Look, let’s not- Let’s not talk about them right now. I like talking to you.” _

“I- I like talking to you, too,” Stan had to focus intently as he spoke to ensure his voice didn’t give away his anxiety, “I’m sorry I brought them up.”

_ “Don’t be sorry, dude. Shit, I should be the sorry one. I don’t even know why I-” _

The noises in the background were more prominent now. Among the frictional rustling and pattering, a tremendous thumping noise tolled, and it made Stan jump.

“Kyle?” he squeaked out, “Hey, are you oka-”

_ “-Hey, dude, I have to go,”  _ Kyle’s tone was staggering with regret,  _ “But I really liked this, okay? I really liked talking to you. I want to catch up more. Can we do it again?” _

“Um,” Stan fumbled over himself, “Y-Yeah, of course. I lov- I liked doing this, too. Yeah, we can do it again. It’s not like I’m doing anything these days.”

_ “Maybe we can even meet in person next time?” _

“Oh.”

Hope poured into Stan’s chest like a gracious waterfall stream.

“Yeah, that’d be great. I’d love to.”

_ “Perfect. Let’s do it,”  _ there was a beat of rest,  _ “Talk to you later, Stan.” _

“Bye, Kyle. Stay safe.”

_ “No promises.” _

Kyle hung up after that, and something about it didn’t feel right.

The phone in Stan’s hand felt heavy when he lowered it from his ear. He moved like a robot, mechanically, soullessly, as he sat down on his bed and opened his computer. He joined the Zoom link for his math class, right on time, and listened to the annoying little dings that sounded every time another one of his classmates joined.

It felt so weird. So out-of-body. He had just spoken to his super best friend after having not spoken to him for months, and the only  _ solitary _ comforting thing about the call was the familiar sound of Kyle’s voice in those scarce moments when he had confidence. Everything else about it was unsettling.

Yet here Stan was, joining his class call like everything was normal.

Oh God, is this-

Is  _ this _ that godforsaken “New Normal” thing that everyone’s talking about?

Stan looked at his computer screen, watching Craig and Tweak make heart hands to each other, watching Cartman pretend his screen was stuttering, and watching Kenny unceremoniously smoke from his bong without shame.

Watching them, Stan decided that if Kyle were here in the class, he could get used to this; he could accept this as their new normal. But until Kyle was here, he refused to accept a single thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the fact that this chapter is a bit shorter, I honestly felt like it was okay as is!  
> To those of you who have left comments, thank you! It's kind support like yours that keeps me motivated :)  
> Thank you for reading, and stay safe out there!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Physical violence

Stan hadn’t called at a very good time.

Kyle knew from the beginning that Christophe was opposed to Stan. The Mole didn’t give a reason as to why he didn’t like him, but Christophe never gave reasons to explain his feelings to begin with, so his aggression wasn’t unexpected.

However, something about his belligerence towards Stan felt peculiar; it felt strangely intense.

Kyle had to assume it was because Stan had that coughing fit. It spooked Christophe a little more than it should have. He was quite rigorous when it came to shielding Kyle from the virus, and the coughing seemingly pushed him over the edge.

It was no secret Kyle was high-risk. The statement was so obvious it might as well have been tattooed to his forehead. He was diabetic, for one thing, and borderline asthmatic. He used to get sick on such a regular basis that it practically became part of a routine; it even got to the point where he could predict his next illness on a calendar.

Thankfully, he grew stronger in his teenage years, and took considerably better care of himself. These days, he could go on walks in the frigid winter air without having to worry about catching hypothermia and eat sugary foods just as long as he moderated his next meal.

But none of the precautions Kyle took eased Christophe. The man was obsessive when it came to keeping his health in check, and at first, it was endearing.

Emphasis on the “at first.”

When Stan had called, Kyle and Christophe had been deeply at work. They had their noses to grindstone, completely engrossed in the function on the computer screen. The Mole kept one hand on the desk and one hand on Kyle’s shoulder, barking out demands while Kyle ferociously typed away at the keyboard, entering functions, bypassing entry codes, and storing viruses inside trojan horses.

This was his work. Making fake IDs was a coverup. Kyle was a hacker, and a damn good one, too. He was computer savvy and technologically dexterous. And hell, he even fixed the Internet that one time when he was, like, eight years old. He excelled in all of his computer classes at school, so much so that he stopped signing up for the courses, because he knew he would eventually find himself too far ahead of the other students (and the teachers, too). So he resorted to teaching himself on his own terms, and eventually got into making websites and computer games for fun.

His hobby took off. He got thousands of views on his games and websites per day. It got to the point where he converted the hobby to a legitimate side hustle, and started making a few bucks just by allowing pages here and there.

Kyle had been content with his work. He never would have thought he wanted more, until one day, almost a year ago from the present, when he stumbled across an anonymous comment on one of his games:

_ hello, kyle. remember me? _ _   
_ _ war on Canada. 9 years ago. _ _   
_ _ ring any bells? _

The message was ominous. It came without warning. And worst of all, it addressed Kyle with his first name, even though he had done absolutely  _ everything _ to protect his privacy on his websites.

The comment went on:

_ I’m back in town for the time being. meet me in our old spot tomorrow night. We have some catching up to do. _

That wasn’t the last of it. There were three more words that made Kyle’s heart flutter with anxiety:

_ I miss you. _

  
  


To this day, Kyle had no idea how Christophe knew it was him behind the computer games. He was certain that his personal information was alienated from all of his websites and games. It was perplexing and honestly a little bit concerning that Christophe somehow knew it was him behind the screen.

Though, in addition to frightening him, Kyle had to admit, it thoroughly impressed him.

Of course he went to meet up with Christophe the next day. He had no reason not to. After all, he missed him, too.

Kyle still remembers the surprise he felt when they met up, seeing how Christophe looked the exact same he did those nine years ago. He was taller, sure, and obviously older. He was more muscular, more gruff, and more worn, but he was still the same. He had barely changed.

When Kyle had said that to him, Christophe got this strange smirk on his face. He had a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth and a glint of cynicism in his obscure eyes when he replied, “Really? ‘Cause you certainly aren’t the same.”

Kyle remembers how he started to sweat even though it was snowing outside.

“What do you mean?” he had asked, “I’m still Kyle.”

“No, I know. You are,” Christophe smirked, those venomous eyes piercing, “You just don’t look the same. You’re more… grown up.”

He said those last two words deliciously, like they coated his tongue in sweet honey.

At the time, Kyle was unsuspecting. He had been too flummoxed by Christophe’s presence, too blissfully surprised to surmise any malintent. And really, he had no reason to suspect that any would come. Christophe was a friend. A friend who quickly became his room-mate, who then became his legal guardian, who then became his watch-dog, and eventually ended up being something Kyle didn’t recognize.

The look Christophe had on his face when his phone rang— that was something Kyle didn’t recognize either. His eyes seemed to sink into his face, like a black hole, sucking the life and energy out of the room.

In that moment, Christophe had looked so loath that it was chilling, and Kyle barely knew how he was supposed to respond.

He ended the computer function on his screen, pausing his activity so he could say, “Hey, I think Stan’s calling. I’m gonna go take this.”

“Now? We’re in the middle of a fucking break-in, Kyle,” Christophe grumbled, his eye twitching.

“I can pause it, it’s fine,” Kyle rose from the chair, “I’m just going to take this real quick. I’ll be right-”

“-We’re in the middle of something. Sit your ass back down,” Christophe demanded, his tone eerily quiet in its harshness.

Starting to feel worried that Stan’s call would go to voicemail, Kyle went ahead and pressed the “answer” button. He kept his hand over the speaker as a precaution, hesitant to let Stan hear anything that could arouse concern.

“It won’t be more than a few minutes,” Kyle assured, his voice ascending in pitch, “I swear I’ll-”

“-Kyle, what the fuck are you going on about?”

“Stan?” Kyle asked quickly into the phone, “Oh, hi. It’s good to hear from you. Hold on a second, I-”

“-Sit your ass back down and we’ll-”

_ “-Hold on, _ let me get to a quieter place-”

“-Stop talking _ for a fucking minute  _ and-”

-When Christophe outstretched his hand toward him, Kyle had to retreat. Clutching the phone against his chest, he backed away and dashed off towards the bedroom. His feet were clothed in nothing but thin socks, and made little noise as they scampered across the hardwood as fast as they could.

Kyle didn’t even stop to check if Christophe was following him.   
He most likely wasn’t. The idea of Christophe chasing him had to be a product of his imagination.   
But that didn’t matter, because Kyle slammed and locked the bedroom door behind him anyway, just in case.

Only when he knew the door was locked did he allow himself to press back against the wood and release a long breath.

He almost threw himself down on his bed to relax. But just before he felt the sweet relief of fabric and cushions, he stopped himself, deciding against it. Technically, it wasn’t his bed at all, it was Christophe’s. Even though he had been staying here for months now, having graduated from sleeping on the couch to sharing the bed, at the end of the day, everything here was still Christophe’s. Nothing belonged to him.

Not even the phone he held in his hand.

Oh God, what if Stan hung up? What if all this trouble was for nothing?

“Hey, are you still there, dude?” Kyle asked quickly, speaking as clearly as he could, “I’m sorry about all that. Can you hear me, okay?”

Relief washed over him like water over sugar when he heard Stan’s voice talking back.

_ “Y-Yeah, I can. Do you- Are- Hey, are you okay? What was all that noise?” _

* * *

They spoke for a while longer, and over the course of their discussion, Kyle’s tension abated little by little. Only a few minutes into their conversation, he was almost completely at ease. Hearing Stan’s nervous laughter and innocent inquiries gave him a light dose of nostalgia, because it allowed him to remember all that he was missing.

When Kyle heard a loud  _ thump, _ he panicked a little and told Stan he had to go.

Stan acted like he understood, and that it was okay, but Kyle knew him better than that.

He ended the call in a rush, sputtering out something like an invitation to meet in-person, before he pressed the red button.

Hanging up on Stan was his first mistake.

Kyle was quieter than normal as he tiptoed back across the hardwood in his socks, hoping that the placidity of silence would assuage the prickling sensation of tension in the air.

When he rounded the corner to the living area, he could see Christophe sitting outstretched on the sofa, his legs spreadeagled, his posture forward and aggressive. He watched Kyle enter, and made a motion as if to invite him onto the couch.

Kyle knew better than to disobey; he sat down on the cushion, and an arm draped over his shoulders.

Christophe looked at him carefully, “Are we going to talk about you running off like that?”

“Oh, that,” Kyle felt his face heat up in embarrassment, “I- That was stupid. I don’t really know why I did that. It was some kind of stupid impulse thing.”

“You weren’t in any danger,” the Mole said, his arm pressing down on Kyle’s shoulders with intention now.

“No, I know. I wasn’t,” Kyle looked at the floor, “Like I said, I really don’t know why I did that. I guess I just got anxious for some reason.”

“What was so important that you had to run off?” he asked monotonously, in a gravelly voice.

“Stan was calling.”

“Who the fuck is Stan?”

“My friend.”

“Your friend?”

“You’ve met him. That black-haired kid you made that awful ID for?”

“Some stupid fucking kid was more important than our break-in?” Christophe delivered the question like it was a statement, deadened and cold.

Kyle couldn’t help but notice the use of the word “our.” Just like with everything in the apartment, nothing was ever only Kyle’s. Even the hacking work, the work that _only_ _Kyle_ was capable of doing, he shared with Christophe.

“Wait, hold on. Why are you getting so upset?” Kyle scoffed, “I was just talking to him. I paused the function on the break-in. I don’t see the problem with-”

“The function was operating under a timed session,” the Mole said curtly, “Meaning all our progress on breaking in was lost.”

Kyle felt the life drain from his face. Guilt enveloped him like a nasty spider web falling over his body, eating at him in little gossamers.

“Oh, God, seriously?” Kyle piqued, “Shit, I’m sorry, Tophe, I had no idea. I didn’t know. God, I feel so stupid now.”

Christophe wasn’t blinking. He probably hadn’t blinked in for minutes now, staring like an unsurpassing stone statue.

“It’s fine, Kyle,” he said, though the iciness in his voice suggested otherwise. He leaned into Kyle, his musky smell overwhelming. His face was right in Kyle’s ear when he muttered, “I don’t mind you talking to a stupid kid, that’s fine. Just don’t botch our work. You’re fucking better than that.”

Kyle nodded, his jaw clenched.

Christophe’s arm squeezed his shoulders tighter, “I’m gonna trust you won’t fuck up again, Kyle?”

“I won’t,” Kyle said. He didn’t like the silence that followed his statement, so he added: “So, you really don’t mind me talking to Stan?”

With his free hand, Christophe dug in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, “I don’t fucking care who you talk to.”

He didn’t release his arm from Kyle’s shoulders, but waved the lighter in his other hand.

Kyle took a hint, and lit the cigarette for him, a motion he had practiced time and time again.

Christophe took a strong inhale from his cigarette, breathing deep into the lungs, and then spoke on the exhale, his words laden with smoke, like fumes from a dragon’s mouth, “Just as long as you don’t botch up our work again, sure. Do whatever. I mean, with me being out of the apartment dealing with clients all day, I’m sure you get bored. You can have your little friends to keep you company.”

“Oh. Yeah?” Kyle got excited a little too quickly.   
That was his second mistake.   
“Because Stan and I were thinking about meeting up in-person next time. You know, face to face. I think it’d be awesome, Tophe. He and I haven’t caught up in ages,” a smile unintentionally bloomed on his face, “We could go down and skate at Stark’s Pond, or we could go to that stupid kids’ restaurant we used to love when we were, like, ten. God, thinking about it now, that place was so cringy. Oh wait, I could just go over to his house and-”

Christophe slapped him so hard that he felt his brain collide with his skull.

For the first few moments, he was too dizzy to process what happened. He was barely cognizant of his limp body, his head leaning back against the couch cushion, and the ceiling over him swaying and swirling.

Only when the room around him stopped spinning did the pain finally come. An ache stabbed him right in the temple of his skull. The bone was pounding, and the flesh on top was stinging with abrasion. Urging himself to sit up properly, Kyle brought a tentative hand to his temple, and then flinched away at the twinge that came with it.

“Tophe,” he whispered absentmindedly. The pet-name was dead on his tongue.

The Mole stared at him impassively. His voice was imponderably low and guttural when he spoke, so deep that it sent chills running up Kyle’s spine.   
“You stupid bitch,” Christophe groused, “How could you be so fucking naїve?”

Kyle was dumbfounded, and he couldn’t utter a sound.

“You know damn well that stepping foot outside this apartment is a death sentence for you,” Christophe hissed, shifting his cigarette to his other hand, “If you want to fucking die, then be my guest. But as long as you’re staying, under my roof, eating my food, and sleeping on my goddamn bed, you stay here.”

He took a lengthy inhale from his cigarette, and then blew the smoke directly onto Kyle’s face, “We’ve been through this, Kyle. More than once. I thought you were smarter than that.”

Without saying another word, Christophe got up from the sofa, sulking off to the bedroom with that odd lopsided walk he always had. When he left, he left the tension behind, with Kyle. That was a skill Christophe has always possessed, he was always able to make someone feel apprehensive without showing an ounce of vulnerability himself.

When Kyle was alone, he raised a hand to his temple again. It still hurt, but this time, he didn’t flinch.

It was at times such as now that Kyle wondered to himself where his old spirit went.

He used to be the feistiest kid on the block. He was practically famous (maybe  _ infamous, _ depending on where you stood) for being the pugnacious redhead who could whip up a solution to any problem, lock antlers with any bully, and out-argue anyone with a bigoted stance.

But now-

-Kyle coughed a little, the cigarette smoke still lurking in the air and itching distastefully at the back of his throat.

He rubbed a hand over his throat, as if to soothe it, remembering how Stan used to give him cough drops on those practically Siberean bus rides to school. He thought about Stan, and how he was going to explain that he was no longer interested in spending time with him. Maybe he wasn’t going to explain it at all. Maybe he ought to just keep it to himself, like he did with everything else these days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was overwhelmed by the kindness of the comments last chapter!  
> Those special few (you know who you are~), I deeply appreciate your feedback. It gives me motivation to keep on keeping on :) Thank you so much.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: there is a brief non-graphic mention of child abuse. Emphasis on the "brief," it can easily be skipped over!

Stan didn’t realize he was staring until it was too late, when Kenny noticed it, too

“Dude,” Kenny wrinkled his nose, “Why the fuck are you starin’ at me?”

Before a single word could leave Stan’s mouth, Kenny jumped the gun. He waved his eyebrows in that playfully sexy way he always does and said, “I mean, I know I’m hot as hell. But last I checked, you were straight as a gate.”

Stan slapped a hand to his forehead.

Kenny laughed. He was wearing the same disposable mask he had worn for more than a week now. Stan had offered to buy him a better one, one that he could rewear with just a few washes, but Kenny doesn’t like charity. So he laughed into the papery mask worn so thin it could have been tissue paper.

“Dude, you’re so flustered,” Kenny chuckled, “Lookit you. I’ll bet you’re blushing.”

Stan kicked a soda can down the sidewalk, watching it clang against the pavement.

“No, Ken, it’s just-” he bit the inside of his cheek, trying to find a non-offensive way to say it, “-You just- You’re not looking so good, Kenny.”

The blonde lowered his head as they walked together down the sidewalk. They were bundled in their usual winter coats, their gloved hands shoved hastily into their pockets, their facemasks strapped down over their mouths. It wasn’t snowing that much tonight, but it was frightfully windy, and the air stung every bit of exposed skin Stan had. 

He couldn’t imagine how cold Kenny was, without any body fat to keep him warm.

“I’m fine,” Kenny said, “I ain’t dead yet.”

Stan frowned, remembering how, in perfect detail, he and his Zoom class had watched Kenny take a beating from his dad in absolute horror, unable to help from their long distances apart, and how their teacher didn’t even address it. Virtual school was unkind to a lot of people, but it was especially malicious to Kenny and his siblings. They relied on school for their meals, for their showers, and for a break from their parents. And now they were just stuck with them.

Stan had to remind himself how fortunate he was, even when he felt at his lowest.

“You’re limping,” Stan muttered, repulsed by the mere thought of Kenny getting hurt again.

“Got into a scrap with some racoons,” Kenny laughed a little, “An interesting experience, I’ll tell you.”

Stan sucked his teeth, “You know… You don’t have to- I mean, you could always, you know, stay with me and my family. We have room. You- You and your siblings. We’d take good care of you.”

Stan knew that Kenny was smiling beneath his mask, he could see it from his eyes.   
“Dude, no. I couldn’t do that. Y’all don’t have to go through the trouble.”

“Kenny, it’s no trouble to help you when you’re-”

“-Okay, okay, what are we walking around town for? Is this about me?” Kenny demanded, “Or is this about Kyle? I thought we were goin’ to visit Ky.”

Stan kept his gaze down at the frost-covered sidewalk.

“Kyle,” he confessed, “It’s- This is about Kyle. Sorry. I just- You know I can’t help worrying about you, man.”

“Heyyy,” Kenny said, his voice scratchy and hoarse, “Chill out, man. I’m a’ight. You ain’t allowed to worry about me.”

“Kenny, I have every reason to worry about you, are you kidding me?” Stan whined. He was debating like a child, and he knew it. Arguing was never one of his strengths.

He just told himself to focus on something to keep his mind straight, and he started to count all the cracks they passed on the sidewalk.

“I’m just sayin, have you looked in a mirror recently, Stan?” Kenny asked, his smirk audible, “I don’t think you have a right to call me out for lookin’ like shit when you can barely take care of yourself.”

Stan knew Kenny had a point, a damn good point, too. But he couldn’t bring himself to accept it. He just went on counting the cracks on the sidewalk until the numbers didn’t stand for anything anymore.

“Let’s just go see Kyle,” Stan muttered, “It’s cold out here.”

“A’ight,” Kenny said. He was good about not questioning like that, he knew when Stan needed his space.   
“The apartment complex is just around the corner, if I ‘member correctly.”

The brick building shortly came into view, compressed between industrial run-downs and abandoned dealerships. It was far enough from the police station for unscrupulous activity to be expected, but close enough to the downtown area for most faces to be recognizable. Stan still didn’t know how the hell Kyle ended up here of all places; really, he thought for certain that Kyle was going to work his way out of this shitty town; and part of him wondered if he really wanted to know in the first place.

“So, do you come here often, Ken? You seem to know your place,” Stan remarked, holding open the front door for his parka-clad friend.

Kenny sauntered inside with a carefree pep in his step, “Not often. Sometimes. The Mole’s a pretty good guy to get smokes from, if you ever run out.”

“What, so he’s, like, a dealer?” Stan asked, unzipping his coat as they made their way down the hall and up the staircase. The stairs were just as exhausting as ever, and both Stan and Kenny were sore after ascending only one flight, gasping for air behind their constricting face masks.

“Not really a dealer, ‘cause -holy fuck, I hate stairs,” Kenny groaned between breaths, “Anyway, he ain’t a dealer, but he’s got shit in stock. And he doesn’t ask questions. He’s pretty chill, actually. I would invite him to one of my bonfire parties or something if he wasn’t so old.”

“How old is he?”

“Like twenty something.”

“That’s not old.”

“C’mon, he’s practically a boomer.”

Kenny stopped moving abruptly, going completely rigid once he made it to the front door of the apartment. His change in composure was so sudden that it made the hair on the back of Stan’s neck stand up.

“Ken?” he tapped his shoulder, “You okay, dude?”

“I just-” Kenny wrinkled his nose, “Ky’s really in there?”

Stan nodded, his head moving robotically.

“Weird.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s been here how long?”

“Months, apparently.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“... Yeah.”

“Welp,” Kenny clapped his hands together, “No time like the present.”

He whipped out a key from his parka pocket, and shoved it into the front door handle.

Stan gawked, “Dude. You have a  _ key?” _

Kenny shrugged, smiling stupidly, as if that was enough to answer his question.

Then he pushed the door open, and a cloud of cigarette fumes assailed them. Stan coughed, cursing his face mask for not blocking out the stench. It reeked so profusely that Stan wouldn’t be surprised if the entire mafia was sitting around in the living room.

So he was surprised to see that the only person in the entire apartment was Kyle, sitting at the computer.

The sight of him took Stan’s breath away.

He almost forgot what Kyle looked like when he was working hard on something. So poised and linear. Directed. Intent. Focused. Kyle sat with his back straight and his posture pristine, his sharp eyebrows drawn forward in concentration, his legs crossed over each other. He sat pinching the bridge of his nose in that becoming, enticing gesture Stan admired.

And he didn’t even break out of it when Stan and Kenny entered.

“Tophe, I already told you I’ll the goddamn algorithms straight,” he muttered, “Just stop smothering me and give me some time to-”

He finally looked over his shoulder, and the spell of concentration shattered. His graceful posture dipped, and he stared with confusion at the visitors at the door.

“How the hell did-” he started, and then stopped. He slipped a mask on over his face, and then rushed over to greet them, “Holy hell, guys! What’re you doing here?”

Kenny grinned beneath his mask, “What? Did you miss us or something?”

“Well, yeah I just-” Kyle balked, unsure of himself. He looked between the two of them like he didn’t know who to address first, and if he should address them at all. Finally, his green eyes settled on Stan, and for a second there, Stan felt a glimmer of hope.

But then Kyle said, “You really shouldn’t be here.”

“We just came for some smokes, Kylie,” Kenny said before Stan could get a word out, “Wanna sit on the porch and blow a few with us?”

“Tophe isn’t here right now, sorry. You’ll have to come back later.”

Stan cut in, “We didn’t come for cigarettes, actually.”

“Well, don’t give away the surprise, Stanny!” Kenny sighed annoyedly.

Stan tried to ignore him, “Can we stay and hang out a bit?”

Kyle winced, “Look, I’m really not supposed to-”

“-Please, Kyle? We don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want us to.”

“I think it would be a really bad idea if-”

“-Are you shutting me out?”

Kyle balked, his eyes widening, “Am- A-Am I-”

“-Are you shutting me out?” Stan asked, his throat going dry, “O-or something? B-Because it really feels like you’re avoiding me. You- I-I mean we haven’t spoken since…”

“... I didn’t mean to,” Kyle said, looking pensive.

“O-okay…”

“Jesus Christ,” Kenny laughed, “Now I see why you needed me with you, Stanny. The awkward tension is immaculate. Y’all are talking like exes or something,” he opened his parka pocket, “How ‘bout some maryjane to break conversation?”

Kyle smiled, “I’ve missed you, Ken.”

“Like hell you did. Weed or no weed?”

“No weed. I need to freeze my algorithms real quick, first, hold on.”

The first hour they spent together was not the rekindling Stan had been craving. They were really only sitting six feet apart around the living area, wearing masks, and making awkward conversation. The room felt cramped and bloated, and the air was stuffy with pensiveness; who knew that pensiveness smelled like cigarettes?

Stan wasn’t the best at conversation like this. Every time Kyle asked him a question, he withered into himself tenuously, one bit at a time, until he was practically just a ghost sitting there among the living. While Kyle was good at prompting conversation, he wasn’t good at answering any questions aimed at him. He could talk for fifteen minutes about some kind of pressing political issue Stan had never heard of, but the second that someone asked him how he spent his time these days, he answered with half-sentences and guilty eyes.

Stan was just glad Kenny was there. Any time the tension became too much, Kenny said something dumb and they laughed and things went right back to normal, at least a little bit.

He didn’t know how long they were talking. On one hand, it felt like years, but on the other hand, it felt like mere seconds. But Stan knew for sure when they were done talking, because the front door opened with a jerk and an immediate silence befell the room.

Christophe walked in sporting a limp, his jaw and shoulders tight. He stopped short at the sight of Stan and Kenny in his apartment, but he didn’t even address them.

“Kyle,” he said. It was one word, but it was enough to send a chill up Stan’s spine.

“They’re my friends,” Kyle vaguely explained, “They just sort of showed up.”

Kenny feigned heartbreak, putting a heart over his chest, “Goddamn, I see how little I’m wanted. Congratulations, Kyle, you’ve broken my heart.”

The absence of laughter was abhorrently lucid.

Stan didn’t know what to do, or even if he was supposed to do anything in the first place. He twiddled his thumbs together nervously, letting his gaze flicker between Kyle, who was growing uneasier with every second, and Christophe, who was growing fiercer.

“You didn’t tell me you were having friends over,” he said in an eerily calm way.

“I didn’t know they were coming.”

The Mole gave a nod towards the couch, “Hey, Ken.”

“Hey, dude,” Kenny saluted.

Stan could have cringed. He had forgotten that they all knew each other; something about it was discomforting.

“You’re lookin’ gaunt.”

“What can I say?” Kenny smiled uncomfortably, “Just livin’ that food stamp life.”

“Us too,” Christophe muttered, shedding his coat and dropping it carelessly on the floor as he went to fetch a drink from the kitchen, “Didn’t know you and Kyle knew each other.”

“But I talk about him and Stan all the time,” Kyle muttered, his voice barely audible over the thumping of Stan’s heart in his ears.

“Wait-” Stan tried to cut in, “Go back. What’d you say, Chris- Um.  _ Sir? _ What did you say, mister, about food stamps?”

Christophe just mumbled something in response, though it sounded more like a grunt. He was busying himself with a drink from behind the kitchen wall, making it blatantly clear how disinterested he was with Stan’s presence in the room.

It shouldn’t have hurt. Stan shouldn’t have taken a random adult’s indifference so personally.

But Kyle was able to pick up on his hurt, even from across the living room.

He lowered his mask beneath his chin, mouthing the words, “Don’t take it personally. He does this all the time. You’re alright, dude.”

They held eye contact for a moment longer, lingering in the warmth of each other’s gazes.

In retrospect, they probably looked at each other for a little too long.

They stared at each other for long enough that they almost didn’t see Kenny spring up from the couch, bouncing to his feet with the levity of a small child. He cracked his knuckles eagerly, “I’m gonna go bother Christophe.”

“Ken, don’t,” Kyle’s face fell in mere seconds, “That isn’t a good idea.”

“Relax, I’m  _ fine. _ ‘sides,” he smirked with his eyes, “I think y’all two need a little mano y mano time. I’ll keep the Canadian distracted, don’t you worry.”

A titillation of excitement kindled in Stan’s chest, and it grew even stronger when Kenny’s plan seemed to be working, when he could hear Kenny and Christophe yapping away about some new drug or other behind the wall of the kitchenette, oblivious to anything that should happen on the other side.

Kyle, with his mask still lowered, smiled a little. He entreated him to rise from the couch, quiet enough that Christophe wouldn’t hear. He led him down the hall with the spiritedness and rapidity of a nymph in a forest, with Stan being an oblivious traveler, desperately following the nymph out of nothing but raw passion and unfulfilled curiosity.

The traveler was, of course, at least tenuously disappointed to behold the meager dwelling to which the nymph had led him.

The bedroom was congested and claustrophobic. The stench of cigarettes was stronger here than it was in the living room, and the air was thick with it; it was a wonder the smoke detectors didn’t go off.

The more he looked, he realized that the smoke detector in the room didn’t even have batteries. It was completely uncharged and disabled.

“Well, that isn’t healthy,” he remarked.

Kyle shrugged, flopping down on the bed casually, “What can I say? He likes to smoke.”

Stan felt the instinct to jump on the bed beside him, just like old times, like the good ol’ days. But he just barely managed to hold himself back.

He had to remind himself that this wasn’t Kyle’s bed, this wasn’t even his house, and that he couldn’t even get near Kyle in the first place.

Kyle must have been thinking the same thing, “Dude, you can get on the bed if you want. I don’t bite.”

“I would, but-” he made a pathetic gesture with his hand, “Six feet.”

“Oh, right,” Kyle laughed dryly, rolling his head back to lazily look at the ceiling, “I forget the pandemic exists sometimes.”

“How could you forget a thing like that? It’s taken over everything, dude, literally nothing’s the same.”

Kyle shrugged, “Not for me. It’s been the same routine for a few months now. I never leave this place. We don’t get good natural light here, so sometimes I can’t even tell when a full day has passed. I don’t even remember the last time I saw you in-person. Besides the time you came for your ID, that is.”

“I remember,” Stan said, wincing a little, stifling his hurt.

“Have the past few months been rough on you, Stan?” Kyle asked.

That was another thing Stan loved about him. Kyle was needle-sharp, straight to the point.

“I know that it’s been brutal for a lot of people,” Kyle went on, a little softer, the green of his eyes warming with concern, “Like, people have lost their jobs, their insurance. Have you been doing alright? I think we need to catch up.”

Stan laughed. Not because anything was funny, but because he found himself giddily nervous.

“I don’t even know where to begin, dude,” he giggled, biting his lip. He looked back at the bedroom door and said, “I’d love to talk to you, really, dude, but I’m gonna have to close that door first. It’d be pretty lame if Christophe or Kenny walked in on me word-vomiting all my trauma on you.”

“I’m not allowed to close doors.”

Stan laughed again, “What?”

“No, really,” Kyle was completely serious, “I’m not supposed to close doors here. Open-door policy.”

Stan’s gut churned, “Really? That’s… weird. What is he, like, your prison warden or something?”

“Worse,” Kyle snorted, “My legal guardian.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Kyle just shrugged, “What can I say? Things have gotten shitty since we last spoke.”

Stan wanted to say the same thing about himself. He thought he had it bad enough, with his dad leaving his family, his mom’s depression worsening, and, of course, the return of his own alcoholic misery.

But then there was Kenny to consider. And even  _ then, _ there was still Kyle.

Here Kyle was, casually draped across a cheap mattress on the outskirts of town, legally belonging to a shifty Frenchman who sold fake IDs to teenagers.

“Tell me everything,” Stan said, “I don’t care if we have to leave the door open. I want to know.”

Even though he wore a mask, Stan knew that Kyle was smirking when he said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”


	6. Chapter 6

While it would be a little audacious to say Christophe’s legal possessionship of Kyle happened overnight, it was somewhat true.

Part of it, at least, truly did happen overnight within the span of one or two hours. All Kyle had to do was hack into the DSS system and rearrange a few things on the government’s radar, and  _ voila, _ he didn’t belong to his parents anymore.

The actual transition, the actual leading up to Christophe’s legal possessionship, took quite a bit longer, though, nearly four months. It started with that anonymous comment:

_ hello, kyle. remember me? _

_ I’m back in town for the time being. meet me in our old spot tomorrow night. We have some catching up to do. _

Obviously, Kyle knew better than to dive right into meeting up. Even on his own website, with a security protocol he designed himself, he was aware of the dangers associated with the potential liar behind the screen. While it would have scared off anyone else, Kyle was enticed by the challenge. Up until now, he had been doing nothing but sitting in his room and doing schoolwork for the past month or so, forbidden from leaving the house by any means necessary. He was bored out of his mind, and sparking up a new conversation with someone, whether it be an old friend or a complete stranger, was highly enthralling.

So he messaged Mr. Anonymous back and forth for days and days. They talked about simple things at first, like how the person really liked this game Kyle developed, and how he thought of ways it could be improved. Eventually they moved onto more serious topics, such as ongoing health updates and personal problems, and by then, there was no doubt in Kyle’s mind that he was talking to the one and only Christophe “The Mole” DeLorne.

As bad as it made him feel to admit, there eventually came a point where Kyle was talking to Christophe more than he was any of his school friends.

Of course, it’s worth noting that “talking” means “messaging.” Kyle was under lock and key, and was prohibited from even  _ daydreaming _ about going outside to talk to his friends.

One day, just near the beginning of quarantine, Kyle had bundled up in his trademark orange coat and ushanka, anticipating a cheerful evening with the kids in his neighborhood. He was halfway through lacing the shoes on his feet when his mother, her red hair frazzled and sticking to her forehead with perspiration, had stormed into the room with her hands on her oversized hips.

“Just what in God’s name do you think you’re doing, young man?” she screeched, the nasally shrill of her voice making Kyle cringe.

By now he should have been more than used to his mother’s belligerent screaming, but he still flinched.

“I was just gonna go play basketball with Stan and the guys,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“No you will not!” she tore the ushanka directly from his head, a few bunches of hair haphazardly getting pulled in her grasp, “Don’t you know the kind of danger that poses? You’re smarter than that, Kyle, you know you’d be in danger!”

“In danger of what?” he dared to defy, “The virus thing? What’s it called? Corono? Something like that? There haven’t been any cases in Colorado!”

“No, but there certainly will be! And I refuse to let my high-risk son be the first to die from it in our grand state of Colorado!”

“Why do you say that like I’m a burden?”

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but his mouth betrayed him. By then, he had already built so much pent-up momentum that he couldn’t stop now. He went on, his voice escalating in volume and pitch.

“I’m not an invalid! I’m not even unwell! I’m well-educated and I can take care of myself, and God forbid if anything were to actually  _ happen-” _

“-I am not having this discussion with you, Kyle. You will go to your room and you will stay there until it is safe!”

“What am I, Rapunzel?” he scoffed. He had never scoffed at his mother before.

Her piercing green eyes felt like they were stabbing right through him. She looked at him as if he had dared to curse, or worse, say the Lord’s name in vain, in her presence. Kyle watched the way her chin quivered, the way her over-plucked eyebrows furrowed, when she said, “So I’m the sorceress captor, then, right? You’re calling me an old, abusive hag?”

“You’re so histrionic…” he muttered under his breath, keeping his head low.

“Go to your room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As much as he wanted to slam the door, he didn’t. He knew it would only bring more bad things for him. So as soon as he gently closed his bedroom door and carefully locked it, he threw himself down on the bed in a heated fury and beat the absolute shit out of his pillow. The poor pillow had been through a lot at this point. He really needed to consider investing in a punching bag.

By the time his pillow was successfully beaten to a pulp, he was still pissed. So he did what he always does when he’s pissed, and he opened up his phone to text Stan:

_ As much as I haaaaaaate saying Cartman’s right about something, my mom can be a real btch sometimes. _

He patiently waited for the grey bubble to pop up. It always did.

He wanted a lot longer than normal, watching the still screen the entire time. At least fifteen minutes must have passed before Stan finally replied with a message that looked like it was typed in a hurry:

_ Dude im sorry i cant talk right now. my moms real upset and needs a lot of attention rn _

Something tugged at Kyle’s gut when he read Stan’s text. Sometimes he forgot that the world wasn’t all about him.

He sighed, looking to the popcorn ceiling of his undersized bedroom.

Kyle felt a strange itch in his hand, an impulse to try a new tactic. He began a message to someone else:

_ Hey, Christophe. How are you doing today? _ _   
_ _ My mom wants to keep me in a cage. _

Christophe replied back in less than a minute.

In the present day, Kyle didn’t remember what Christophe had typed back. But he remembered how it made him feel. He remembered how much better he felt afterwards. He felt so… noticed. He felt like someone was actually listening to his problems. He felt  _ validated. _

Talking to Christophe in that way, it felt so  _ right. _

If only it could have stayed that way.

Kyle was smart. Insanely smart. He should have picked up on the warning signs before they even happened. He should have sensed the rabbit hole long ago. He should have known better than to let things end up the way they did.

But he couldn’t help himself. He was losing contact with the outside world more and more each day, and he yearned for attention that his family never allowed him. He was just so desperate to feel that kind of validation again that he entirely dismissed all the red flags, milking every moment of attention Christophe gave him.

It took an entire month before he actually became concerned.

The catalyst for his concern was none other than Stan Marsh.

Kyle had been editing one of his sites, cleaning up a few bugs that had somehow made it through his first screening, when his phone buzzed. He was excited, hoping for yet another message from his french admirer, but was surprised to read a name that he hadn’t read in weeks:

_ Hey dude im sorry i havent been texting. I know its really shitty of me. Things have just been fucked at home. dad finally walked out on us which i guess is a bad thing but sort of a good thing too. But moms real depressed and shelley isnt doing shit for us so i guess everythings just hhhhhhhhh _

More texts followed moments later:

_ Im sorry. I realize im ranting. this isn’t really fair to you. we havent talked in forever. Im sorry. Im sorta scared for you dude. you havent been on any of the school calls. I know thats not like you. Im sure youre going through worse _

_ I hope youre okay. _

_ Im drunk in case you cant tell. Im sorry. Im not in recovery anymore. Im sure your pissed _

_ I miss you. _

“I miss you.” The exact words that Christophe used to steal Kyle’s attention away a month ago.

Kyle closed his computer. He picked up his phone and moved to sit down on his bed, opening up his contacts page and getting ready to call Stan with a long-awaited, fevered apology.

But then something weird happened. When he pressed the call button, his screen turned black and his phone shut off completely.

He unlocked it and tried again, thinking he just had an odd WiFi malfunction. But then the exact same thing happened. Then it happened again. And again.

Deciding that his phone wasn’t going to let him call anyone, Kyle reasoned with resorting to texting. Messaging through texts was the language of his generation, anyway. No one his age ever really called anyone to begin with.

He typed out a long, heartfelt paragraph filled with apologies and advice, content genuine enough that he felt himself tearing up as his nimble fingers flew across the keyboard.

When he sent the message, a red warning sign flashed on his screen, saying that the text didn’t deliver.

It was getting weird now. Kyle felt goosebumps rise up on his arms and legs, and a chill quiver up his spine.

He sent a rushed text to Kenny, and another one to Ike, and just in case, one to Cartman.

All three of them popped up as “not delivered.” Okay, so whatever it was, it was definitely a problem with his phone, not just something on Stan’s end.

But that didn’t really make sense, did it? Because Kyle had been messaging Christophe without any technical interference for forever now. Why would-?

He began a text to Christophe, not even putting effort into whatever random comment he typed out.

He sent it.

It delivered.

In a mere instant, he saw the grey bubble of Christophe replying, and he shut his phone off in haste, tossing it down on the bed.

What the fuck was happening?

He scrambled back to his phone, but he didn’t read Christophe’s new text. Instead, he scrolled through previous messages, texts dating back from yesterday to a month ago, obsessively scanning for some kind of explanation. It was that moment when all the red flags stood out to him for the very first time:

_ i really like talking to you, kyle. I’ve missed this _

_ i like you _

_ sorry i didn’t get back immediately. hurt my hand in a fight with the landlord. don't worry i won ;) _

_ no one understands me like you do _

_ we need to talk _

_ i know you hated school back when we last talked. jesus christ we were like little kids back then. do you still hate school? we could always take you out of school _

_ thinking of you right now _

_ bought a new gun today _

Little by little, Kyle felt ice prick over his heart. His chest was cold. His ears were ringing.

Christophe was completely infatuated with him, and he had been blind to it for so long.

A new text arrived:

_ it says you read my text. you aren't responding. are you ok?  _

_ whatever you need, i’ll help you. do you need me to come over? _

It was too late by then. He couldn’t walk away from the relationship already established.

He had, himself, developed a fondness for Christophe. Granted, it wasn’t to the same extent, but he liked Christophe a lot. He was a good friend. He was there any hour of the day, ready to talk to Kyle, to give him encouragement he couldn’t find anywhere else, enticing him into, essentially, a cyber mousetrap.

It only took a week for the cyber mousetrap to become a physical one. But by then, it was less of a trap and more of a sanctuary.

Things had become tough at home. Kyle’s father was unemployed thanks to the pandemic, Kyle’s mother was emotionally exhausted and distraught at every hour of the day, and Kyle’s brother was cold and unrelenting. They were stir-crazy because of the indoors, they were hungry because they were scarce on food, they were cold because they could no longer afford to pay for heating, and they were pissed-off because  _ every single little tiny thing _ caused an argument.

“Mom, can you  _ blame me?” _ Kyle screeched, throwing his hands in the air, “My teachers don’t know what they’re doing with these damn online assignments! How can I be expected to maintain perfect grades when-”

“-Online classes do not give you permission to slack on this house’s rules! In this house, you will uphold th-”

_ “-Then maybe I don’t want to stay in this house anymore!” _

Sheila looked at him like he said exactly what she wanted him to say. She looked victorious, but coldly and evilly so. She crossed her arms and gave a nod to the door, “Fine by me. Pack your bags.”

And he did.

Before he walked out the front door, Kyle caught a glimpse of the look on his mom’s face. She regretted what she said, and that she hadn’t meant it. But she was just too damn stubborn to yield, and Kyle was too damn stubborn to fall back.

He left his home without a sense of direction, without a plan. He felt naked, exposed, and vulnerable. He took out his phone, the icy air biting at his fingertips, and called the first contact who came to mind.

But just like before, his phone wouldn’t let him reach Stan.

So he did the next best thing and called Christophe. The Mole was there to pick him up in less than a minute. It took such a short time for him to arrive that it made Kyle wonder if Christophe had seen this coming, if he had been waiting.

“I have a job for you,” Christophe said as they drove off, his gaze not leaving the road ahead of them. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other inching towards Kyle’s thigh, “And I have enough room for you. I’ll take care of you.”

“It’s about time somebody did,” he muttered, but regretted it instantly. Kyle didn’t sound like himself. He had always been the brusque, independent kid of the clan who didn’t need anyone to take care of him. But now he was using the need for security as some kind of anchor.

An anchor to his new legal guardian.

Moving in was easy. Kyle didn’t bring many things with him besides a few pairs of clothes. Christophe made up for everything he didn’t have. By looks alone, Christophe looked like a guy who couldn’t afford more than a few scraps a week, but miraculously, he provided Kyle with a new phone, a brand new computer system, and anything he would ever want. They ate off of food stamps and struggled to pay their water bills, but Kyle found himself living like a prince.

Kyle made sure to include that last detail when he explained all of this to Stan. He knew his super best friend was a nervous wreck, and that he needed some emotional alleviation.

For that same reason, Kyle only skimmed over the concerning parts of his story. He very, very subtly went over Christophe’s borderline unhealthy affections; he refused to let Stan have a panic attack just because of a story about a hole Kyle dug himself.

But even with his precautions, by the time Kyle finished speaking, Stan was as pale as the bedsheets beneath them.

“Stan? Dude?” Kyle leaned forward, “Are you okay? Because I swear, I really only-”

“-Trash can.”

“What?”

“Trash can. Now.”

Of course. How could Kyle  _ possibly _ forget that Stan’s defense mechanism was to projectile-vomit?

Jumping up from the bed, he snatched the wastebasket on the other side of the room and tossed it Stan’s way. Cigarette ash and scraps of paper flew out of the top, but Stan caught it in time to heave the contents of his stomach without getting a drop on the bed. He puked until there was nothing left inside of him, coughing a little with tears in his eyes.

Kyle wanted to touch him, to comfort him, but considering the obvious, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to get too close.

“Oh, ew…” Stan winced, “Gross. Oh my god, I got a little on my mask. Ew. Oh god, I’m sorry, Kyle. I’m sorry.”

“Dude, it’s okay, honestly. Hey, we have some disposable masks here. I can get you one, it’s no big deal.”

“I really liked this mask, though, goddamnit… I bought it on Etsy. The sales money went to, like, an animal sanctuary or something.”

“Oh, Stan,” Kyle’s heart titillated, “That sounds just like you.”

“Thanks,” Stan croaked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “I guess.”

“I missed you,” Kyle said before thinking.

Stan grimaced, “I missed you, too. So much. And I still miss you. Can you come back home, please? I don’t like it here.”

“I don’t think-”

“-Do you like it here?”

“ … Of course.”

“You hate it here.”

“What? No, I-”

“-Kyle, I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. And I know I suck with reading people’s emotions. But it’s different with you, dude, you’re my super best friend. You’re like… I don’t know… my soulmate, or something. I know you don’t like it here. Can you come home with me? My mom won’t mind.”

Off in the distance, they could hear Christophe cackling at something stupid Kenny said, both of them probably spewing smoke and virus particles everywhere.

“But someone else  _ will _ mind,” Kyle muttered.

Stan winced at the sound of Christophe’s laughter. He gave a long, exaggerated sigh, and buried his head between his hands.

“Well, what do you want me to do, Ky? I don’t know what to do. I’m not as smart as you.”

“I don’t want you to  _ do _ anything,” he leaned in closer, “I just want to spend time with you.”

Stan gave a sad smile, “Ug, I’m such a hypocrite. I promised Dr. Fauci that I’d listen to him and stay away from people.”

“You made a promise to Dr. Fauci?”

“Not in person, obviously. I promised the TV. I got lonely and started talking to every face I saw on screen.”

Kyle smiled, shaking his head, “Oh God, Stan. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Stan sniffed, wiping his eyes a little, “Sorry for throwing up. Thanks for not getting mad.”

Kyle laughed, “If you think I’d get mad at you for  _ that, _ we’ve really fallen out with each other.”

“ … I sort of think we have. But it wasn’t our fault.”

“The evil virus’ fault, then?”

“I was gonna say the government’s fault.”

“What’s the difference?”

Stan smiled, “Good question.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, I just realized all the anti-2020 stuff in this fic is now irrelevant. Can't believe we're already in February of 2021. This is insane. I guess just keep in mind that this story is set during the winter of 2020? :) Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyheyhey, there were some reeeeeally nice comments last chapter! I was so touched! I often feel like this story isn't going anywhere and that no one really likes it, but you guys! 🥺 Y'all are so sweet. It's encouragement like that that actually motivates me to work on this story. So thank you so much, you know who you are <3 And have a happy Valentine's Day! If you're alone on Valentine's Day today (like me :D), I'll be your platonic Valentine ;) Take care and stay safe, everyone!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Nothing graphic. Just themes of familial issues, health issues, and depression. Y'know. The usual. Oh, and being high. That too :)

Stan had promised his mom he would be home by ten at night

It was about four in the morning right now and the last thing Stan wanted to do was go home. Well, that wasn’t true. He actually wanted to go home very badly. This apartment, the feel of it, was entirely unsettling. He didn’t like being here, and he certainly didn’t like Kenny being here, and he  _ definitely _ didn’t like Kyle being here. As uncomfortable as he was staying in this smoke-filled dragon’s lair, he would rather stay here than go home, because going home means leaving Kyle behind.

The idea of going back to his bedroom, the place where he had been holed away for months straight with nothing but his phone and computer to keep him occupied, with those dark painted walls and those sports trophies collecting dust, was an idea that made him sick to his stomach. Having to return to that pestilential prison he was supposed to call a bedroom, right after getting a brief taste of the familiarity and comfort that only Kyle could bring, was a prospect that felt insurmountable.

He really, really didn’t want to go home.

But it was four in the morning and it was technically a school night, and he could tell Kyle was getting tired.

He had to give him kudos where they were due, Kyle certainly hid it well. He wasn’t a bad actor. He carried on conversation for hours, feigning interest during some parts, and stayed engaged the entire time. But Stan eventually noticed Kyle’s speech slurring and his blinks growing further and further apart.

Stan was wide awake. His internal clock had been fucked up since he was twelve years old.

But it’s not like he could blame Kyle for being tired. It was more or less Stan’s fault, anyway, so he felt pretty guilty. At least Kyle’s tiredness proved that he had a better grasp on the passage of time than Stan did; at least he was healthy in that regard.

Oh, that’s right. Health.

That was probably something they should talk about. Considering the pandemic and all.

It was surprisingly easy to forget about something so momentous.

“So,” Stan said, forcing casualty, “How’s, uh, you know… How are you doing with, like, being healthy, I guess?”

Kyle tilted his head to the side, “What was the question? You had more filler words than actual substance there.”

“You know…” Stan shrugged, “Like, with everything going on in the world. We’re all, like, focused on our health. Or concerned about our health. One or the other. I’ve fallen to the latter. I was asking where you are with that.”

“Wait, what?” Kyle shifted forward, “Stan, what do you mean you’ve fallen to the latter? You’re concerned about your health? You? The star quarterback? You didn’t catch the virus, did you?”

“What? Oh! Oh God, no! No, no, no, it’s okay, I’m fine. Calm down, I’m okay,” Stan tugged at the collar of his shirt, “I’m okay. I promise. I wouldn’t come visit you if I had the virus, that’s stupid. I wouldn’t ever put you in danger.”

“But you’re concerned about your health,” Kyle said, not missing a beat.

“Less concerned, more… more disappointed, I guess,” Stan shrugged with one shoulder, his mouth pulling into a frown, “You must have noticed I’ve put on weight. I don’t really… look the same.”

“I thought it was intentional.”

“What?”

“I thought your weight gain was intentional,” Kyle said calmly, directly, “The last time I saw you, yeah, you were super fit, but, like, your veins and muscles were bulging, dude, it didn’t look too sustainable. It looked like you were overdoing it a little. I thought your weight gain was intentional, to compensate for that.”

Stan’s mouth fell open.

“It’s subtle though,” Kyle went on, noninvasively, “I think only your friends and intimates would notice it. I think you look good. The extra definition on your face makes your eyes stand out.”

“Dude…”

“What?” Kyle shrugged, “I’m only speaking the truth, dude, I think you look really good.”

“Kyle,” Stan was smiling, “Thanks, dude… No one’s- No one’s said that to me.”

“I can’t imagine why. Maybe they’re just jealous of the star quarterback’s handsome features,” Kyle smirked. Then his eyes rolled to the ceiling in thought, tilting his head back, “Or I guess it’s because there’s this stigma about weight gain for some reason. It’s stupid, I don’t get it. I think because of the way our culture’s set up, people feel uncomfortable complimenting people on the topic of weight, more so on the topic of gaining it. Personally, I don’t understand why society’s set up the way it is. I think that, for some people, gaining weight is just as healthy as losing weight is for others.”

Stan was smiling with his face pressing into his hands, leaning forward as he sat in eagerness, “I always feel like I learn so much from you. Why is it that you know everything about everything?”

“Pssh, no,” Kyle rolled his eyes, “I know nothing. I just can’t keep my big mouth shut when it comes to giving my opinion stuff.”

“Come home with me, Kyle.”

Kyle blinked once, twice, three times, thinking, assessing. Then he dropped his gaze from the ceiling to his friend, looking at Stan with a wisdom beyond his years, “Stan, I told you I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I’m- Well-” he widened his mouth, as if the right word would just fly in, “-I’m sick, Stan, I can’t go outside!”

Stan’s heart flew to his throat, “You’re sick?”

Kyle made a frustrated sound, slouching back on the bed, “You know what I mean, dude. I’ve never been well. I can’t risk it these days.”

Stan released an equally frustrated noise. It caught in his throat and ended up making the walls of his trachea clench.

It was true that Kyle didn’t have the best reputation for health. When they were kids, he was always the first kid in school to get the flu, and always the last kid to recover from strep throat. His type-one diabetes also complicated things, and made him susceptible to passing out cold in the school hallways. He had always had a strange disinterest in food, he’s probably never eaten the daily recommended five fruits and vegetables a day in his entire life, and he often skipped meals just because he forgot.

It was a little ironic how he ended up being best friends with Stan, the kid who was renowned for his poster-worthy football body. But that probably had something to do with the fact that they had known each other since they were practically babies, back when health wasn’t a concern.

These days, health was everyone’s concern.

“I get it,” Stan said, looking at the floor, “I get it. I’m sorry. I wish- I wish I could help you.”

Kyle shrugged, “It’s not like there’s anything you can do.”

“ … What if I quarantined?”

“What good would that do?”

“No, like, what if I quarantined for ten days without leaving the house once?”

“Do you mean fourteen days?”

“No, ten. The CDC changed their guidelines.”

“Did they?” a look of guilt flashed across Kyle’s face, “I haven’t been keeping up.”

“Kyle… how would you feel if I quarantined for ten days? Not even for groceries or anything. If I stayed put for long enough, there would be no chance of me having it. So I couldn't pass it onto you. Then you could come over, couldn’t you? ‘Cause it would be safe?”

That same awful expression of guilt was smeared across Kyle’s face, “Dude, you don’t have to do that for me.”

“No, but I want to,” he just barely held himself back from blurting out just how  _ badly _ he wanted to, “So, what do you say?”

“ … I’d have to ask Christophe first.”

Stan’s throat lurched. He lowered his head, “Oh.”

“Dude,” Kyle winced, “Don’t be like that. It’s not like it’s weird I have to ask. He- I mean, he’s my guardian, isn’t he? It’s no different than you asking your parents to hang out.”

“I don’t ask my parents for anything anymore.”

Kyle considered this, thinking something to himself internally. Then he shifted forward on the bed, his hands folded in his lap respectively.

“A few months ago, one of the last things you said to me before we stopped talking was that your dad left.”

If the statement had come from anyone else, Stan would have recoiled in on himself and drowned out the world. But because it came from Kyle, he knew that the bluntness was harmless, the directness of his statement came from a place of love, so he didn’t feel overwhelmed, he felt, strangely protected.

It was weird. It felt like Kyle, this sickly stick of a kid, was protecting Stan, the (formerly) revered athlete. Weirder things have happened in South Park, he supposed.

“Yeah,” he finally confessed, “Didn’t take anything with him besides the clothes on his back. He just left.”

Kyle nodded, his eyes alluring and calming, “Do you miss him?”

“No,” Stan said. Then he took a breath, “Yes? I don’t know. It’s- I- I mean, I want to be mad at him, you know? He, like, completely messed up our family. He freaking destroyed my mom. And I want to be mad at him for it, but it’s like- I sorta feel  _ bad _ for him, you know? Like, I understand why he had to do what he did. And it- it’s just so… messy, dude. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Kyle nodded, “I know what that feels like.”

It went unsaid what made Kyle feel messy, too. Or, it went unsaid  _ who _ made him feel that way.

“So… So if I quarantine for ten days, and if we ask your guardian, and if he says yes, you’d come over and stay with me for a bit?”

“Yeah, dude, of course. But don’t-” Kyle winced, “Don’t call him my guardian.”

Stan balked, “But he  _ is _ your guardian, isn’t he?”

“He is, he is. But-” Kyle looked the other way, “-I don’t know, it’s weird. I don’t see him as anything more than a roommate. He’s just an older kid whom I live with, okay?”

“Okay,” Stan forced himself to believe that it made sense, “S-So we have a plan, then?”

Kyle pursed his lips, “A tentative plan.”

Stan’s heart broke a little bit, but just enough, “Oh. Sorry, were you-”

“-Dude, don’t say sorry, it’s not you. It’s-” he scrunched his nose, “I just don’t know how he’ll react.”

They could hear the echoes of Kenny and Christophe laughing down the hall, the two of them both probably as high as kites by now.

“Do you think he’ll say no?” Stan asked, “Because if that’s the case-”

“-Don’t suggest that we pull a shenanigan.”

“What?”

Kyle smiled. At first, his smile was melancholy. But then, a more self-righteous smirk came to replace it.   
“You know,” he drawled, “All the adventures we went on when we were younger. Always doing illegal things for Cartman and running around town for our lives. Pulling shenanigans. Don’t get me wrong, those were really fun times. I’d actually really like to do one again before I die.”

“Kyle, what-”

“-I’m just saying, I don’t think we can pull one in these circumstances,” his smile reverted back to the softer, sadder one, “It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Oh. Well. I mean- I was only going to suggest that I could start coming over here. Y’know, more regular visits?”

Stan felt something sink in his gut when Kyle’s smile remained as it was, sad and soft, even when he said, “I’d really like that, Stan.”

There were a few  _ bangs _ from the other side of the wall, and then the door swung open. Stan jumped up, his hands instinctively balling into fists, but then he realized it was only Kenny, giggling like an idiot.

“St-Stan we’ve got to go hooooome, dude!” he laughed, “I- I- I’ve got a fuckin’  _ Zoom _ test in three hours! How stupid-ass is that! Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” he laughed again, “Hey, what class is the test for again?”

Kenny’s eyes were red, and his hair was plastered to his face with grease and disarray. He looked at Kyle, and his smile grew wider, the gaps in his crooked teeth showing, “Kyyyyyle! I missed you! How long ’ve  _ you _ been here?”

Kyle looked at him carefully, motherly, “Stan, I think you’ve got to get this one home.”

“I think so too,” Stan sighed, “He’s had it rough lately.”

“We all have,” Kyle said. His eyes lingered on Stan for a little longer, “Stay safe on your walk home, okay? Stay on the sidewalks.”

“Okay,” Stan said, wanting to say more but not knowing how to say it.

“Text me when you get home?”

“I thought you said that your phone doesn’t wo-”

“-Christophe bought me a new one. Remember? That’s the one I called you with last week,” he must have been biting his lip under his mask, “Text me when you’ve made it home. So I know you’re good.”

“Okay,” Stan could feel all the things he wanted to say pressing against the insides of his lips, piling up behind his teeth, reaching on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say so much more, but his jaw was locked tight, the words all building and churning behind closed doors.

Kenny slung his arm around Stan’s shoulders, completely disregarding all their fears of intimate physical contact, and laughed directly in his ear, making him flinch, “Du- Dude what test do we have tomor- today? What- What’s it in? On? What’s it on?”

“Oh God, Kenny, stop. Neither of us are wearing masks, stop it,” he sighed, his temples aching. He gave Kyle the best apologetic gesture he could offer.

Kyle responded with a shrug that could have been akin to the words “I understand.”

Gathering his feelings in his throat and his intoxicated friend in his arms, Stan made his departure. He could feel the warmth of Kyle’s presence leaving him with each step, leaving his body and disappearing into the smoky air. On his way out, he passed by Christophe, who could have been sober just as much as he could have been high. He made it difficult to tell. He stood hunched over on the kitchenette counter, watching Stan and Kenny, not blinking.

There was an unsettling look in his eyes that Stan didn’t know how to describe— he didn’t even know if he  _ wanted _ to describe it.

All of a sudden, Stan felt something sickening clench in his gut, observing the different ways Christophe behaved around Kyle versus Kenny, the way he became an unsurpassable feat of overbearing, obsessive protection with Kyle, versus the way he threw caution to the wind with Kenny, allowing him to devolve to a state of euphoria so abysmal he could barely stand up straight. The duplexity was abhorrent. It made Stan grip Kenny a little tighter, holding him close.

“Come on, dude,” he whispered, “I’m gonna get you home.”

Kenny whined, “But I didn’ even get to see Kyyyyle.”

“You’ll see him next time, okay? Let’s go.”

Christophe’s jaw clenched at the words “next time,” but he didn’t say anything. He just kept his impenetrable stare focused on the teens as they left, as if even after they left, their presence would never truly leave.

* * *

As much as Stan hated leaving Kyle, he was really happy getting Kenny out of there. He was looking worse for wear by the time they exited the apartment complex, and Stan hated seeing him stumble over himself like he didn’t know any better.

Kenny was so blitzed that Stan was actually able to convince him to take refuge at the Marsh house. It didn’t occur to him until afterwards that they could have stopped by the McCormick house to pick up his brother and sister, but right now, Stan just needed to get Kenny somewhere safe.

His mom and sister didn’t question it when he and Kenny stumbled in just before dawn, both of them red from the cold. Sharon didn’t wake up from her sleep on the living room couch; like everyone else, her sleep schedule was catastrophic these days. Shelley was awake, though, and while she did give Stan a weird look, she went right back to her social media and said nothing.

Stan patched Kenny up the best he could and put him to bed. The action of tugging sheets over Kenny’s freshly bathed body made Stan wonder why it was so easy to take care of someone else but so difficult to take care of himself. He couldn’t entertain the thought for too much longer, though, because he had online school to do, and—

He looked at his school laptop.

No. He wasn’t going to do that today.

Then he looked at Kenny sleeping.

He probably shouldn’t do that either.

He looked at his phone.

His fingers itching with urge, Stan rushed to send a text to Kyle, letting him know that he and Kenny were home safe.

A new message came only seconds later:

_ Thanks for messaging. Glad I don’t have to worry. Take care, okay? Text or call if you need anything. _

Stan felt himself smiling before he could help it. He tried stopping out of embarrassment, but his smile kept bouncing back, like a spring.

He typed a text back:

_ i will! you do the same _

_ and let me know how things go after you talk to christophe k? Keep me updated _

After a while of waiting for a response, Stan decided he wasn’t going to get one. There were no read receipts on his last two messages, so Kyle likely went off to sleep. Stan did, after all, keep him up until dawn.

He looked out the window at the morning sunrise, watching the way the snow fell. The sun was pale yellow and barely visible behind the stark white snow clouds, radiating a subdued morning wake-up call, subtly reminding earth’s creatures to stir from their sleep and start the day.

Had it been any other year, Stan would have bundled up in his hat and scarf and run out to enjoy the morning. He would have skipped breakfast just so he could build a snowman before he had to board the bus. Then he and his friends would laugh, and curse, and sing songs as they rode to school, always bickering over something of any degree of magnitude.

As he reminisced, a familiar tune trickled into his head , like water dripping off an icicle that hung from the school rooftop.

“School day, school day, reading and writing and rule day,” he heard himself humming his favorite childhood rhyme, watching a bird outside puff up her feathers to keep warm.

Things were so perfect back then. Even with the daily shenanigans and weekly catastrophes, there was ample opportunity for playing outside with his friends, drinking hot chocolate on the porch with his on-again off-again girlfriend, or just spending the evening lying around on Kyle’s bedroom floor, taking in his presence and being grateful to be alive.

Stan stood there at the window, watching the way the puffed-up bird started to shiver. Her efforts of keeping warm were doing her no good, and she couldn’t stay here any longer. She gave a tired chirping sound, shaking the snow from her feathers and taking off, leaving behind no trace she had ever been there.

He thought about the evenings he spent on Kyle’s bedroom floor. He thought about the times when they made bets on who would win basketball games, but only paid those bets in arcade tokens and bubble gum, the times when Kyle forced him to study because he refused to let Stan fail, the times when Stan scolded the absolute hell out of Kyle because he hadn’t drunk a drop of water all day, the times when Kyle secretly helped Stan win at Mario Kart, though he never, ever admitted to it, the times when Stan was still playing football every Friday, the times when Stan’s dad still came home after work, the times when Kyle wasn’t living with an absolute dragon, and the times when they didn’t have to be afraid of a pernicious disease killing them and their families off every time they stepped outside.

Stan had loved being alive then.

He sat down on the bed.

Not because he wanted to be near to Kenny, but because his knees gave out.

He buried his head in his hands, not noticing the way Kenny started to stir. The blonde peeked an eye open, yawning listlessly, “Stan?”

Stan patted the pillow under his head, “Go back to sleep, Ken.”

“How’d I get here?”

“I took you. You were in bad shape.”

“I told you I couldn’t risk goin’ to your house, man… Y’know, both my siblings got some asthma problems goin’ on. I swear to god, if I get them sick-”

“-Dude, don’t get mad. It’s too early for this,” he wiped his face with his hands, “I’m sorry. I had to. You weren’t looking so hot. You really need to start taking care of yourself, dude. This isn’t healthy.”

“You’re one to talk,” Kenny muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, giving in to his exhaustion.

Stan grimaced at the truth behind Kenny’s words. He stood from the bed, his legs stiff and achy, “Can I get you some food, Ken? I’m sure you’re hungry.”

“Mhm,” Kenny muttered, drifting back into sleep.

Stan sighed, watching Kenny’s chest start to rise and fall in shallow rhythms, finally earning the sleep he rightfully deserved after working so hard for his fragile little sister and abused older brother. He tried to think of a time when Kenny was well-fed and healthy, but no memory came to mind.

_ Buzz. _

He excitedly opened up his phone, but was disappointed to not see anything from Kyle. It was a text from Wendy, of all people, asking him why he wasn’t on the class Zoom call.

This was the first time Wendy Testaburger, the one and only, both the love of his life and the orchestrator of his heartbreak, texted him directly in months. She sounded… concerned. Her message made it seem like she cared.

But strangely, Stan didn’t really care. He didn’t feel anything. All he saw were letters on the screen, each of them with equal insignificance. He shut off his phone and tossed it to the side, heading off to the kitchen to prepare a breakfast for Kenny.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends :) This is where the ball (almost) finally drops. (Ain't the climax, but still.) You may have noticed a change in warnings and tags?  
> Proceed with caution, I guess :) and try not to get mad at me for how different this chapter is compared to everything else that's come before 👉👈
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Violence, underage (NOT smut, but still worth the mention!), noncon kiss, sensory overload, agoraphobia/agoraphobic attack

It was just like the first few days of quarantine all over again: half of it was fun and kinda chill, the other half of it was stressful and anxiety-inducing.

For the chill part of it, Kyle found himself excitedly texting Stan every day, staying up late and waking up early just to message him. It was the most they had spoken in months, but it didn’t feel like they had that divide anymore; it felt like nothing had changed between them.

Though Stan's sense of humor has changed, Kyle realized, with a slight pang in his heart. They texted each other memes and gifs every day, and Stan’s were always either really dry or really dark in humor, contrasting Kyle’s preferred subtle and intellectually crafted innuendos. Stan’s changed in general, he supposed. Stan was more grown up now. Not in the sense he was mature because in terms of logic and emotional control, the kid had a  _ long _ way to go. Stan was just more… belabored by life. He’s gone through things, and it showed.

But Stan was still Stan. And Kyle loved texting him.

The former quarterback was on day five of his ten-day self-assigned quarantine, watching over Kenny all the while. Stan never explicitly explained what was going on with Kenny, but Kyle supposed it wasn’t within his rights to know. He hasn’t been a really good friend lately, not speaking to anyone for months, he didn’t deserve the same level of intimacy with everyone that he had with Stan.

That’s why he appreciated their texts even more. Stan was the only person he could talk to at all right now, since Kyle didn’t stay engaged with his old friends anymore, speaking to his family was out of the question, and as for Christophe-

Well, that was the stressful part of it. Kyle hasn’t seen much of him lately. It wasn’t unnatural for the Mole to go away for an entire day and not show up until past midnight. Sometimes he did the opposite, and went away late at night, not reappearing until after dawn. Every once in a while, he disappeared for more than twenty four hours. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Kyle just asked if he was okay upon reentry, then Christophe would mutter something about just losing track of time and run a greased hand through Kyle’s hair, and all would be well again.

He’s been gone for a little more than four days now, and Kyle was getting stressed.

After the second day, he had texted and called a few times to check in. This was the longest time Christophe has ever left him unaccompanied, and while it had the potential to be invigorating to be so free, Kyle’s time all alone grew more and more daunting by the minute. The Mole hadn’t responded to any texts or calls. He left one voicemail around two in the morning last night, but it was seven seconds long and filled with too much static for Kyle to make out a word of it.

Kyle, being the rational person he was, thought he would have come up with an explanation for this. He thought he would have gathered all his resources, compiled all his information, assessed everything he knew, and come to a reasonable, corroborated conclusion to explain Christophe’s disappearance. But he couldn’t. It was so strange. For the first time in his life, Kyle felt like his brain wasn’t working properly. He felt… stupid. Oblivious. Incapable. They were new feelings, and he hated all of them.

He paced around the apartment, checking his phone and computer compulsively, craning to hear footsteps down the complex’s hallway, entirely overwhelmed in every sense of the word. He was getting restless just pacing around and waiting, and he was getting hungry. There was little food in their poor excuse for a kitchen. The only food items they had were those pre-packed frozen slops that Kyle’s weak stomach could never keep down.

He knew he needed to get Christophe back soon, if not to feed him edible food, just to settle his state of mind, because his stress was insatiable right now. He was pushing himself to the brink with his concern, so much so that he could feel the indications of a migraine coming on.

Kyle looked at the door, trying to picture what the hallway looked like behind it, but finding that he didn’t remember what the hallway looked like.

Should he go after him?

In truth, Kyle had no idea where Christophe went during the day. Or night. Or where he went in general. And knowing this town, it was  _ not _ a good idea to walk outside all alone.

“Especially not if you have a pretty face,” Christophe had once told him late at night, while Kyle was already in bed, trying to find warmth in the paper-thin bed sheets, and Christophe mulled about the bedroom, dressed in a wifebeater and muddied boots.

“They’d take advantage of that,” the Mole went on, bending over to shove something away in a drawer, moving in the dark so Kyle couldn’t see him. His voice had been huskier than normal that night, laden with something yearning beneath the surface, “You have a pretty face, Kyle. People would want that. They’d hurt you.”

“Stan taught me self-defense back in middle school,” Kyle muttered through a yawn. He had been half-asleep at the time, all tucked in, ready to tune out the world. He was too tired to really understand what Christophe was implying.

“You won’t need self-defense. I have a gun, remember?”

“Mmn,” Kyle closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of his pillow, “What if… I don’t know, what if we’re in a situation when you’re not with me? I can use self-defense then. I’m a good puncher. I’ve given black eyes before.”

“Oh Kyle. You won’t need that,” the man smirked, almost amusedly, “I’ll always be with you.”

He certainly wasn’t with Kyle right now. 

Kyle, with his pretty face.

Kyle, without a gun.

He was all alone in an apartment with no edible food and a shower head that groaned so loudly he flinched every time he turned it on or off.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, moving to tie on his shoes in a rapid haste, “Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this.”

He couldn’t go on just waiting for Christophe to return home. His anxiety was going to suffocate him if he waited for much longer. Besides, who knew when Christophe would come back? Or if he would even come back at all?

His fingers froze around his shoe laces.

No. He would. Christophe would come back. He was too fond of Kyle to just abandon him, and he was too stubborn to let himself get killed.

He grabbed a mask and slipped it over his mouth, tying the ends tight around his ears.

He didn’t know where to go, but he had an idea of where to start. Kyle knew the apartment complex had a security guard who could help him; he knew of the guard from the countless times Christophe had scrambled into the apartment, stashed away the fake IDs, and commanded Kyle to only speak when spoken to when the guard came in for a “visit.” He remembered the times he kept his head low and his sentences minimal each time the guard came in to check on things, and he remembered the way Christophe always smirked with victory by the time the visit was over.   
The guard would have security footage, wouldn’t he? He could show Kyle where Christophe left, when he left, and maybe even tell him when he would be back.

Granted, it might be ambitious to assume the guard would be able to help at all—asking someone to do their job properly was often asking for too much in this town— but it was the best plan that Kyle could think of in his bout of anxiety.

As he hastened with unlocking the front door, Kyle accidentally wondered if he would have been capable of thinking of a stronger plan a few months ago. Before Christophe.

He pulled his jacket tighter than it needed to be. No, he told himself. He was fine. Christophe was fine. His plan was a good one.

Taking a final breath of uncontaminated air, Kyle opened the door and started swiftly down the hall. He walked with his hands in his pockets and his gait quick as he moved briskly over the unvacuumed carpet.

The hallway carpet was pitiful. It was so flattened that Kyle was sure his feet had more cushioning back on the hardwood in Christophe’s apartment. It was smudged and worn with age, and it smelled like the stuffy indoors with a slight hint of vomit. The carpet used to be red, but no one could guess that now. It was so brown that it was repulsive, which was so…  _ disturbing _ to look at now, because when Kyle had first arrived here months ago, the carpet had still possessed a hint of ruby-garnet; it had still maintained a pinch of liveliness to it.

He didn’t make it more than a few paces before he found himself slowing to a halt.

He tried bringing his hand to his open mouth. But instead of the flesh of his trembling lips, his fingers made contact with the coarse fabric of his mask.

Kyle hadn’t realized until now that this was his first time outside of Christophe’s apartment. The last time he had been outside that door, the last time he had stood on this carpet, looking at those menacing, aging address numbers of Christophe’s door threatening to fall off their hinges, was months ago, when he first arrived.

He felt an unexpected surge of guilt flood his system.

He heard himself emit a noise, a strange, animal-like, fearful noise he had never made before. It caught in his throat and seemed to clog his nose, like a muffled scream of bitter shame.

Or fear. Perhaps it was fear.

It had been too long since he’s felt fear.  _ Real _ fear, that is.

There have been times he felt cautionary when he read over the latest Coronavirus reports, but he wasn’t fearful. There have been times when he lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, and dreading what his family would say to him if they saw him now, but that wasn’t fear either. There have been times when Christophe said something that made him uncomfortable, or moved in a way that made him jump, or touched him in a way that—

But even  _ that _ kind of fear was different than what Kyle was experiencing right now, a kind of crippling anxiety that felt like it was boiling and burbling up inside of him, simmering and churning with intensifying heat, fermenting to the point where he was practically frothing at the mouth with terror. He was trembling on the inside and out, his chest impossibly tight, his face flushed with that same effervescing fear.

How was it possible that this hallway was so  _ large? _ It seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, grotesquely stretched and distorted in elongation. It made him feel sick, dazed by the dizzying vastness of it all.

Desperate to get out of here, Kyle felt his feet moving before his mind did, carrying him down the hall and to the stairwell. He stopped briefly, not intentionally, taken aback by the gross immensity of depth the staircase had to offer, tunneling downwards, and downwards, and downwards, so far it looked like it went beyond the pit of hell.

Lurching away from the hellish depths before him, Kyle fell back against the door, his spine colliding with cold and hollow metal, the sound of his skull hitting the surface reverberating through the stairwell.

He sat there stunned, every bone in his body trembling with apprehension.

This can’t be real.

This can’t be real.

How the  _ hell _ can this be real?

The hallway, the staircase, the-

The  _ lights, _ too! They were so bright!

Kyle winced at the overhead lights, straining his eyes shut and folding in on himself.

How could they be so  _ bright? _ How could this world be so  _ big? _ When he left it a few months ago, it hadn’t been this terrorizing, had it? Certainly it hadn’t. Certainly it hadn’t. Certainly it-

He heard the overhead hum of the air conditioner ignite, and it scared the living shit out of him. It released an exploding screech. Raw shrills of metal and fire seemed to scream through the slats of the air conditioner, shrieking with the fervent passion of a fleet of hellhounds.

Jumping to his feet, Kyle launched himself down the first flight of stairs.

This isn’t real.

He quickly scampered down the next flight.

It’s impossible.

He skipped a few steps down the third flight.

Real life isn’t this scary.

He almost fell down the next flight, but righted himself and kept running.

It wasn’t this scary a few months ago.

He was almost there. He could see the door to the first story.

It was never this scary back when life was normal. When he went to school. When he lived with his family. When he had Stan.

Kyle’s foot caught on the edge of a stair when he made it to the bottom flight, and by now, he was moving so quickly he couldn’t save himself from falling. His face smacked onto the first floor, his nose colliding with concrete.

The impact didn’t hurt immediately, but when he unsteadily rose to his feet, his body seemed to remember that it was supposed to be hurting, and pain started to throb in his knees and feet, and on his nose.

“Ow,” he muttered pointlessly, touching his nose with the back of his hand. It wasn’t bleeding, so it wasn’t broken, but for some reason, that didn’t make Kyle feel any better.

He sniffed. He couldn’t go back now. Not alone.

He readjusted his mask on his face and urged himself forward.

Pushing open the stairwell door, Kyle entered the first story of the apartment complex. He’s lived in this complex for almost a year now, and he’s only been on the first floor once before. He felt his stomach somersault inside him when he observed that it was just as sinister as the third story; the carpet was the wrong color, lights were blinding, the space was too big.

He could barely make out the security guard’s office from where he stood, placed miles and miles across the room, so far away it made him dizzy to look at. His lips trembled at the thought of having to make such a pilgrimage; he wouldn’t make the journey alive.

“Hello, sweetie?”

He whipped his head to the other side, where an elderly woman stood behind a desk. She held a clipboard in one wrinkled hand, the other one placed over her heart. With an overly floral mask covering half her face, Kyle barely recognized her as the landlord’s wife.

She waddled over to him in that distinct way old women do, her backside caved in with age. It was clear she posed no threat whatsoever; she was harmless, a complete paradox to all the horrors the apartment complex has shone so far. But Kyle still flinched when she approached him, backing up into the door.

“Sweetie, are you okay? You look unwell. Come here,” she said, outstretching a hand that reeked profusely of old perfume.

Kyle shook his head wildly.

Something about this lady was wrong. The way she smelled. The way she held out her hand. The way she was being so nice to him. Why was she being so nice to him? People in real life aren’t this nice. This can’t be real.

“Oh, no need to be afraid. It’s okay. Do you need help? You look like you need help.”

He wanted to scream. He cringed further back against the door.

“It’s okay. Come here, sweetie.”

Leave me alone.

“Why are you so frightened? Are you ill?”

Leave me alone.

“Do you live here? You aren’t a resident, are you? I think I would recognize you.”

Leave me  _ alone. _

“Where are your parents, sweetie?”

“Kyle?”

Christophe wasn’t real. He couldn’t be real.

“Kyle, what are you doing out of the apartment?” Christophe, real as day, asked with forced worry.

If the old lady hadn’t been there with them, there was no doubt in Kyle’s mind that Christophe would not have filtered himself, and he would have barked out the question like it was an accusation, either preceded or followed by a slap across his cheekbone.

“Mr. DeLorne, does he belong to you?” asked the landlord’s wife. She looked between the two with concern, a hand tucked over her belly; it was a maternal gesture, likely one of loss.

“Kyle, it looks like your asthma’s acting up again,” Christophe said, stepping forward. He grabbed Kyle’s elbows from behind, steering him around, “Let’s get you back home.”

“What is he to you, DeLorne?” the lady waddled forward, following, “Certainly not a son.”

“Certainly not,” the Mole muttered irately. He tightened his grip on Kyle’s elbows, craning his neck low to hiss in his ear, “Kyle, move your feet.”

Kyle didn’t realize until now that his feet were firmly planted on the ground. He wasn’t moving. He didn’t know if he  _ could _ move.

Christophe didn’t seem to notice. He pushed past the stairwell door, ushering Kyle along the way, his feet dragging listlessly, and the old lady not too far behind.

“A brother, perhaps? A cousin? A friend?” she called out, desperate for breath as she struggled to keep up.

Living with Christophe for the past few months has taught Kyle to pick up on his cues. At the moment, he could tell from the upturn of his unmasked mouth and the way he wasn’t even blinking that the Mole was mere seconds away from going ballistic on the poor woman.

By the time he made it to the stairs, Christophe resorted to carrying him. He was so intent with his stride that the landlord’s wife was far behind, and Kyle couldn’t break away (even if he were capable of moving).

In one last glimpse before their flight of stairs was ascended, Kyle watched the old lady throw up a hand and question, with a desperate gasp for air, “A boyfriend, then?”

Christophe kept marching.

“If he’s permanently residing with you, the terms of your contract change! You need to file a-!”

Christophe was already so far up the stairs that her cries were mere echoes, echoes reverberating under all the other external chaos of the apartment: the air conditioner, the lights, the size of it all… Kyle made a sound akin to a mewl, covering his ears and burying his face into Christophe’s chest.

He reeked of his usual cigarette stench, but this time, there were other scents, too. He smelled of sweat and tobacco, as well as other unknown scents that stung Kyle’s nose and made him feel even dizzier.

A blur passed by, and the next thing he knew, Kyle was no longer wearing a facemask. He was sitting down, safe in the apartment again, surrounded by the familiar hardwood, the distant whirr of the computer, and the  _ closeness _ of it all. He never appreciated how small this place was before, and now he revelled in its tininess, exhaling with a light smile on his lips.

His smile vanished when he saw the way the Mole was staring down at him, crouching before his seated posture.

He braced himself for a slap.

Instead, he was swaddled into two massive arms, his own arms squished to his sides in the tight hug. He could feel Christophe’s breath shuddering against his bare neck as well as Christophe’s rapid heartbeat against the shell of his ear.

“I almost lost you,” the Mole’s voice broke through his rugged breaths, raspy and weak.

Then he released the hug, moving back only an inch or two. He kept himself uncomfortably close, his dark eyes ignited with fervent worry, “What were you doing outside?”

Kyle bit down on his tongue, the bitter taste of raw fear still lingering in the back of his palate.

He took a little too long to answer, and Christophe grabbed him by a tuft of his hair, jerking him forward,  _ “Kyle,” _ he hissed,  _ “What were you doing outside?” _

“Looking for you!” he cried in a burst of pain.

“Looking for me,” Christophe repeated dryly, “You ain’t ever come looking for me before. Why the fuck do you expect me to believe that-”

“-You were gone for four days!” Kyle exclaimed, “What was I supposed to do? You never told me where you went, and you weren’t answering my calls. I-I was always good at managing independence, but I today-”

He felt his nose flare up, welling with mucus and the forecast of crying.

“Tophe, I don’t know what happened,” he confessed, “I stepped outside and everything was  _ big, _ and  _ loud, _ a-and it- It wasn’t normal. I-It was so- I don’t know what happened.”

He expected his comment to be scoffed at or demeaned; his words were seldom regarded as anything but insignificantly ridiculous in this apartment. But he was surprised when Christophe spoke softer when he said “That’s just what the world outside is like.”

“No, no, it was something about me-”

Christophe grabbed onto him again, this time gently tugging his wrists in close, locking them together as if they were in handcuffs,  _ “No. _ That’s what the world is like right now, Kyle. That’s why I never take you with me when I go out.”

“I-” Kyle stared at his wrists, “I thought it- I don’t know, I thought it was because you didn’t trust me to-”

“-I work with dangerous people, Kyle, I see them do fucking terrible things,” he licked his lips, a crack of dried blood in the corner of his mouth, “I ain’t going to let a thing happen to you. So I keep you here.”

Kyle sniffed again, looking the opposite way, “What that old lady said…”

“Forget about her. The nosy old hag. Can’t mind her own damn business. I already paid my month’s rent.”

“Tophe, what she said about, you know, me belonging to you. All those things she mentioned. Friend, boyfriend…” Kyle swallowed, “What am I to you?”

Christophe. Then, slowly, maliciously, a smirk appeared on his stubbled face, an unforeseen glint in his dark eyes.   
“Kyle,” he said, as if speaking to a child, “You’re none of those things.”

Because his wrists were ensnared, Kyle couldn’t break free when Christophe bent in to smother him in a kiss.

Kyle didn’t breathe. He choked, actually; too stunned to manage anything more.

Christophe didn’t notice. Or maybe he did notice, he just didn’t care.

He kissed with more intent, his lips now pressing firmly and roughly, his tongue threatening to break into Kyle’s mouth, limp with distress. By the time Kyle’s mind caught up to speed and he finally understood the severity of what was happening to him, it was too late, because he could feel Christophe’s knee pressing into his groin, his wanton desires impending.

_ Buzz. _

Christophe stopped moving, frozen in time and place.

_ Buzz. _

The Mole pulled away now, rising from his crouch. When he walked away, Kyle could start breathing again, and leaned his head back for more air, flexing his newly freed wrists back and forth.

He was acutely aware of Christophe finding his cell phone, picking it up from wherever he left it and reading the new texts.

“Still talkin’ to that Marsh kid?” he asked, not looking up.

It didn’t really sound like a question, so Kyle didn’t answer.

He watched Christophe, with his back turned, tuck the phone into his pocket and say, “I’m gonna hold onto this for you. It’s not like you need it. You ain’t going out, after that panic attack you had. And I ain’t leaving again for some while.”

That sentence should have scared him, but Kyle just nodded.

He found that he didn’t have the willpower to stand back up. His lips were tingling, and he brought his hand to touch them, bewildered by how different they felt, like they were no longer his own, like they belonged to someone else.

His lower regions, too, were crawling and prickling with the mortifying dolour that Kyle was no longer his own person.

He could see faint bruises on his wrists where he had been trapped, purple crescent moons painted across his skin from where strong fingernails pressed. He brought them to the sides of his head, holding his skull between his hands, as if it would fall apart without support.

He sat there holding himself, wondering why the hell he chose to not notice sooner.


End file.
